Sifting the Ashes
by Lyrium Flower
Summary: Nevalle's journey of self-discovery leads to exotic, spirit-rich Rashemen. Will his duty to Neverwinter override his love for the only woman who ever captured his heart? INCOMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Sêlune's shadow bathed the battlements in its quiet glow, the reinforced fortifications gleaming silver in the light. It was quiet, still; the only sound the gentle sighs of the sleeping forest that surrounded the fort. A breeze whispered through the trees and brushed along the rolling undulations of the land to break upon the stone edifice that was Crossroad Keep.

A single Greycloak sentry stood guard at the base of the cobbled road leading up to the Keep, his eyes heavy with the temptation of sleep, yet kept awake by will alone. Sêlune's milky radiance touched him too, washing his chainmail, somewhat tarnished, in the same silver glow as everything else.

He shuffled his weight and stretched himself, rearing on the tips of his toes. It had been a long shift – a series of long shifts. They were stretched thin at the Keep, ever since the siege. So many men were gone. In his mind's eye, faces flashed. Good men, able men, they had joined when the Keep was rebuilt not too long ago. Some volunteers, some recruits, all lads inspired by the courage of their Captain and Sergeants, ready to lay down their lives in the defense of their homes. And now so many of them had been called to do just that. They were gone yes, but they would be remembered. The garrison of Crossroad Keep was unmatched and they had held their ground in face of the undead legions of Black Garius.

Such thoughts swirled in the mind of the sentry as he kept his lonely vigil. The man's name was Dobbson and he was one of the earliest recruits. He recalled with the fondness of a man devoted to his leader, his first interaction with his Knight-Captain, then a mere Captain, a rank and appointment conferred because of circumstance rather than service and the men were wary and suspicious of their new overlord. His anxiety was well-founded therefore, when Lt. Kana found his waiver of the Amn Tax improper and sought to punish him. He was brought before the Captain and told to explain himself. Words failed him and stumbled from his mouth before that iridescent pair of eyes.

He had never before beheld such a stare. Pupils so brilliantly green that it could have been pools of magical spirit essence and they seemed to bore through him like acid arrows. She was tall as any man and possessed a statuesque grand beauty. Her blood was plane-touched, of that much he was certain.

They had been told that the new Captain was a Harborman, so somehow what he expected was a country lass not what stood before him. There was a quiet authority about her and even though her years were few and there was not one silver hair on her head, instantly he knew she was more than capable of anything put before her.

"Captain, it was no bribe, I would never take a bribe. It's just an old law made centuries ago with no relevance today. It's accepted practice for toll to be waived. I did nothing wrong." He had stammered, it was the truth as he believed and knew it and though a part of him proposed other excuses more plausible, he found himself incapable of giving voice to them before her acid stare.

Somewhat mercurial, she could be generous and kind one instant and sharp the next. When the Neverwinter City Watch requested manpower, she spared the men even though the Keep needed all able hands. Yet when her men's arms and armour suffered through lack of funds, she felt no qualms choosing The Fated Winds. That day, she exonerated him despite Lt. Kana's indignation. It raised the morale of the troops. They realised that the Captain was not unreasonable; that she was approachable and they need not fear her wrath needlessly. Yet she demanded discipline and their training was much tougher than what the other Greycloak regiments underwent. Their weapons and armour too were keener and stouter than any other. The roads were patrolled regularly and the lands were cleared of unsavoury men and beasts alike all the way to Neverwinter. Peasants flocked to the lands around the Keep and within only a few seasons, a town charter was signed. Merchants returned to the High Road and thronged to the Keeps' Inn where ale flowed smoothly and Joy performed every evening. Life was good at the Keep, and everyone knew it was the Knight Captain who steered their ship with the wisdom and grace of a grizzled veteran.

And now she was gone.

All night they had battled the forces that besieged the Keep, and fought off the Shadow Army. So many men were lost. He himself had seen Sergeant Katriona brought down by a posse of elite vampires and ghasts. They had found her remains the next day, drained of blood. He felt a deep void in the pit of his stomach. Katriona was brave and noble and had fought valiantly for this land's freedom. He would always honour his superior and remember her firm determination but there was a greater loss still that fell upon the entire garrison like a Curse of Despair.

Dobbson glanced across to the empty room at the top of the Neverwinter Nine tower, that belonged to Nevalle, where a candle could often be sighted even deep into the night. It had lain empty for over a month. Sir Nevalle had yet to return from the Mere.

For a week after the shadow lifted and the Claimed Lands receded, Sir Nevalle had waited to welcome her Ladyship home. For a whole week, the emissaries of Lord Nasher had camped in the Courtyard to celebrate the victory with the Lady of Crossroad Keep, but the Knight never returned. Eventually they returned bearing the unhappy news to Nasher. Sir Nevalle could not be deterred and he took a large number of what remained of the garrison to bring the Lady back, but there was no word from them and Dobbson feared the worst.

He sighed and entered a silent plea to Sêlune as she faded behind clouds and disappeared into the night. He inhaled the sweet pre-dawn night air and even without an hourglass he knew the day would break soon and he would be relieved of his watch.

--

'Over here!' 'I think I found something!'

Nevalle looked up and squinted against the sun. Damp swamp air clung to him like a Dreadwrap, so heavy he could cut through it with his sword. His tunic was tattered, grimy and terribly stained with mud and his last good pair of boots had given up today. He had fastened sole and upper together with rope and though it made walking difficult, it was the best he could do. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and strained to see what the commotion was about.

For five weeks, he had toiled here in the sticky heat of the Mere of Dead Men moving the rubble by hand in the hope of finding her. At first, Nevalle hoped to rescue her alive but as the days turned to weeks and the weeks now spilled into months, that hope had waned. Now he hoped that the Saviour of Neverwinter may be given a proper burial and the City, all of Sword Coast could honour her sacrifice and courage.

Now once more, after a hundred false starts, his heart lifted momentarily and he trudged through the slime and debris of the Shadow Temple to where an equally weary Greycloak subaltern claimed to have 'found something'.

"What is it, soldier?" Nevalle asked rasping for breath.

He glanced at the only man among them who showed no sign of fatigue or discomfort. He looked as fresh and at home after five weeks of picking through the rubble of the Illefarn citadel as he might have looked after a casual stroll around the park. Though his stature was diminutive, his loss was not. His hair had begun to grey in these few short weeks and Nevalle could see silver streaks. The man had aged more in the last month than in the last century. His eyes were sad but he said nothing, and Nevalle could tell he still hoped to find his daughter alive.

"Sir, I think. I think it might be …_a person_."

Nevalle felt a constriction in his throat. _Please don't let it be her_, he silently begged the Gods. Even though he expected to, was determined to find her remains, the thought of confronting her corpse filled him with dread.

So many times, he had just been on the verge of telling her, finding words for the feelings that had taken root in his heart but the moment had never been right. Now she was gone, and the thought that he might never look into those brilliant green eyes again, or hear her voice across the courtyard, or steal a brush against her soft smooth skin crushed him as surely as these massive slabs of ancient stone before him had crushed the knight who had once been his squire, _his squire_. He repeated the thought to himself, she had been _his_ once and he had hoped to make her _his_ again.

He braced himself and held his despair in check as he dropped down on his knees in the mud and struggled to free the body trapped beneath.

"I think, sir…I think it's a man, sir."

Nevalle was able to exhale. A part of him was disappointed – the part that sought closure; the part that wanted to return to Neverwinter and clean clothes, but there was another part of him that was relieved – the part that still clung to the hope that she might yet be alive, the part that bound him to this horrid swamp and made him toil day after day in the wild hope of gathering her in his arms at last and telling her what he felt.

"Is…it… one of her…companions?" He found his voice, but it came out hoarse.

Daeghun had already begun a closer inspection, and in a few moments he announced his result.

"Some of this hair, it seems to be still intact and although maggots have not left much," Nevalle recoiled, the thought of her body desecrated by maggots and rotting in the peat struck him anew and he prayed again that he would not find her in that way, her graceful beauty sullied.

"I think the hair was brown, and judging from the build of this man. I think it was the ranger, my brother's acquaintance."

"Bishop!" A surly looking Greycloak, filthy with labour, spat out. "Bloody traitor! Bastard whorespawn!" He swore loudly and compounded his words by spitting on the rotting corpse.

"Easy, sergeant." Nevalle spoke up. "He lies dead before us now. I wager he suffers terribly in the hereafter for his crime."

Two men dragged the body out and laid it to rest in a makeshift shallow grave where the swamp would soon swallow it.

Some hours later, fed and watered the men prepared to turn in for the night with another hard day's worth of labour ahead of them. They were encouraged by the day's find and the hope that they would recover the Lady's remains and be able to return home soon comforted them.

Nevalle himself took little comfort in this and as he strolled through the campsite toward his tent, he spotted the old elf at the edge of the clearing, staring listlessly toward the forlorn outline of the ruined edifice.

"We'll find her, sir. There is a chance. The building seems to have held up toward the centre of the structure. It's possible there were air-pockets and there is no need to give up hope yet. I think her Ladyship, she had sufficient rations and it's…entirely possible…" He began reciting the same futile thread of logic he repeated to himself at night, so he could welcome sleep that otherwise would elude him.

"His skull was crushed, as was his spine. He must have been conscious for a few hours, slipping in and out of wakefulness; the weight of the stones crushing him ruptured his intestines…broke his limbs." Daeghun paused and both men mulled over the same thought.

"It is indeed, a most painful way to go." Nevalle whispered finally. His voice faltered as he struggled to shut his mind off, too afraid that it might wander and begin imagining what her last moments were like. "I think we should sleep now." he ventured finally.

The elf did not stir. After a long awkward pause, Daeghun spoke again, "He was barely a hundred yards from the exit…just a few more moments…"

Ten days later, Nevalle himself found what had eluded him for six weeks. The discovery did nothing to cheer him, and the thought of returning home to Neverwinter and clean clothes and pleasant weather did little to comfort him. That night as he sat alone with his thoughts in his tent and ran his fingers over the tattered, faded material he felt his eyes prick and before he could raise his hand to wipe it off, a single tear escaped and fell down his cheek. It had been her cloak. It was nothing but a rag now, even the colour had faded. Only the fearsome eye that symbolised her Knighthood remained, cruelly squeezing out any last vestiges of hope he might have harboured.

They recovered another body as well. Small in stature, and from the build and the ears, they concluded it was an elf, but whether man or woman they could not identify.


	2. Chapter 2

Like summer, winter too was mild in the city of Neverwinter. The temperature dropped but remained just above freezing; only sometimes in severely cold seasons a mild blanket of snow descended but usually, the season passed with no further discomfort than the rain. On the rare occasion that the sun dispelled the slate gloom and graced the sky, many a citizen could be seen heading toward the park, picnic basket slung over one arm. Families gathered together when such days coincided with holidays and the park was crowded, the clamour of excited children rising above the trees.

On that particular weekly holiday however, even though the weather was unusually crisp for the time of year, and the sunlight bathed the city, the park was silent and bereft of children. Nevertheless a large gathering stood assembled upon the green, dressed in dark mourning hue and Lord Nasher himself stood in attendance next to the priest of Tyr, whose silver hair caught the sun most and shone like mercury.

"We are gathered here to solemnly lament the passing of a great soul. May the City of Judgement welcome our honoured sister." He read from the voluminous tome in his hands."Amen!" the crowd murmured.

"Kelemvor! Who judges the dead, be merciful to our Hero!" He pleaded.

"Amen!"

"Kelemvor, who is just and fair, forgive our sister's follies and judge her faithful. Spare her the torment of the Wall!"

"Amen"

"And may Chauntea who watches over the Mere, welcome a brave daughter of the tilled soil to her Realm." The grave, silver haired priest finished.

In the middle of the front row, with courtiers on either side stood Nevalle, least aware of the rather comely lady at his side who even at the funeral hoped to catch his eye, or of the brilliant weather, or even that Nasher himself observed him.

He only thought of a day months and months ago, when Captain Brelaina of the City Watch approached him with her rather extraordinary problem. He had been requested to dispense with tradition and take a young lieutenant of the Watch as his squire with immediate effect in order to save her from Luskan low justice.

Nevalle was traditional to the core, his father had served Nasher faithfully all his life and his father before him. Never in his entire life, had he bent or broken the rules by which he had been raised – the rites, rituals and traditions he followed and above all the devotion to duty he bore the City of Neverwinter and Lord Nasher, were very firmly entwined in his heart with the compassion, mercy and benevolence his mother indoctrinated within him. To ask that he dispense one for the former, as Brelaina at that point did, upset and unsettled him. His father deceased, he had only his old mentor to approach for advice, and the old sage had given him the most cryptic of answers. Ill at ease, he had reached Brelaina's office, still uncertain about what he was about to do.

Yet, when he first laid eyes on her, he _knew._ He knew her heart was compassionate and her manner kind, he knew the nobility of her heart as he knew himself. The doubts he harboured were dispelled and for the first time ever since Brelaina approached him, his conscience was at ease. He _wanted_ to make her a Squire and _knew_ she would one day be a Knight of the Realm. He had seen the fire in her brilliant, uncanny green eyes that reminded him of the spirit essences Master Quitoric had once brought to show in 9th grade Arcane Arts class at school.

Nevalle sighed and the dream dissolved. He looked up and regarded the elaborate sarcophagus that carried only her rapier, and the tattered, singed cloak – the only legacy she had left him.

--

It was a brilliantly clear day that summer, when newly appointed Captain, she had ridden with him to Crossroad Keep. A light breeze rustled through the foliage and brushed against his cheek and as he looked over at the figure upon the sable charger trotting beside his white steed, it was the first time that he felt that now familiar tug in the pit of his stomach.

Her neck, smooth and pale arched above the blue city watch cloak she had thrown over her shoulders. Her hair, always neatly and tightly twisted atop her head had become undone by the day's hard ride and tumbled across her shoulders in waves of rich hazelnut brown that caught the sun and gleamed with a cool gold lustre. He was caught, to his utter surprise, by the sudden desire to run his fingers through those locks and ringlets that cascaded down one side of her neck. The realisation filled him with colour and he struggled to look away but found himself unable to avert his eyes.

"Quite the sight, is she not?" The greycloak sergeant at his left wondered.

"Yes." Nevalle blurted, without even realising the soldier had referred to the Keep and not the woman.

--

Just in time to realise the service was over, Nevalle broke from his reverie and quickly dashed to take the rope from a City watchman and helped lower the sarcophagus into the earth.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The cleric recited, sprinkling the casket with Holy Water as the ditch was filled up with earth.

Nevalle wiped his hands on his breeches, his heart torn in anguish as he watched the new monument eased over her grave. A smooth tall bronze obelisk, it bore a small silver plaque etched with the Neverwinter Eye at the top, followed by a brief epitaph:

"_In Memory of the Lady of Crossroad Keep, whose courage stood between the Sword Coast and eternal Shadow:_

_Neverwinter basks in the light of the sun this day and honours her sacrifice."_

The crowd begun to move and Nevalle fell in with the company that followed Nasher across the green and toward the carriage that waited for the ruler of Neverwinter. Once Nasher had left, the rest of the gathering quickly dispersed until the park fell silent and deserted once more. Nevalle appreciated the quiet and the solitude as he strolled back home, still occupied with his memories.

--

It was a brief moment in the battle at dawn. The Keep had been betrayed and the gates flung open while undead poured into the courtyard. At the very front of the battle, she stood armed with that legendary silver sword she had reforged with her will alone in one hand. How it flashed and struck down foe after foe. And in the other hand, the rapier enchanted by the might of Ammon Jerro's demonic friends, it blazed with the fire of the Nine Hells and torched the ghouls surrounding her with each blow.

She fought with the fury of an angry firestorm and the grace of a panther until the broken corpses of the enemy littered around her, but then Black Garius had materialised and summoned an avatar of the King of Shadows himself. Still, she charged at what was no more than a being of shadow, as Jerro and Zhjaeve recited from the Name Scroll. The Paladin, besmeared in blood, not all of it his own, chivalrously dashed to her side, Nevalle recalled with just the hint of resentment. Garius cast a spell and the whole Courtyard rumbled and shook as if a gigantic invisible Earth Elemental was stomping down upon them.

Nevalle saw her fall, knocked off her feet and he quickly cut through the Erineyes that battled him and ran to her side. She was unconscious and he remembered the sweet warmth of her body and her deliciously soft and pliable weight as he carried her out of harm's way. Locks of her hair, having escaped from their confines fell across her face and spilled over his arm. He remembered the slightly floral, woody, slightly earthy smell of her. Not at all like the frivolous ladies of the court he encountered all the time, drenched in fine perfumes and anointments. He brushed his thumb across her pale, slightly rosy cheek and laid her down upon the ground. The moment passed.

The recitation was complete and Casavir managed to smite the Nightwalker to oblivion. Black Garius fled. The battle was won. Dawn broke and washed away what remained of the undead army.

Her eyes fluttered open and Nevalle backed away as she rose to her feet, shaking off the daze and marching off to assess the damages.

The last time he saw her was in her main Hall of the Keep, later the same day. She spoke just a few short words to him, quietly thanking him for his support. He struggled to convey his true feelings to her, fought for the right words, the right pitch, the right tone. He grabbed her arm as she walked away and made her turn around and look at him one last time, yet all he could bring himself to say was a hoarse: "Please take care."

She stepped through the portal Aldanon had opened and vanished forever, and no amount of ale would bring her back.

--

--

"I wish to assign you to a very special mission, Sir Nevalle." Lord Nasher looked stern yet his face betrayed the concern he held for the broken young knight.

"My Lord, I will serve."

"Just yesterday, I received word from our concern in Rashemen. It seems there is some trouble brewing in that region."

"My Lord, Rashemen is thousands of leagues from Neverwinter and Thay would be ill-advised to regard the Sword Coast will ill-intent." Nevalle responded at once.

"True, and normally we, given our own recent woes, would hardly concern ourselves with such distant problems but I still wish you that you head over and report what you find for the description of the problem intrigues me somewhat, and I truly wish it thoroughly investigated."

"May I ask what has caused you to be concerned, my Lord." The young Knight enquired.

"You may, Nevalle, you may. Our man reports that an ancient dark evil threatens the land."

"Surely it could not be the King of Shadows resurfacing my Lord, our Lady of Crossroad gave her life to ensure he would trouble us no more." A twinge of pain sawed at his heartstrings even after all these months.

"Indeed, it may be something entirely different. Yet, the man reports, there are rumours that a person of great power, hailing from the Sword Coast region has also appeared and seems to be connected to this evil."

"But…it cannot be!" Nevalle's first thought was that Black Garius had somehow survived.

"I am not saying that it is _anything_ to concern yourself about, Nevalle. If the problem involves one of ours, we should at least try and find out more. That is all that I wish of you. Besides, the travel should do you good. I fear if you do not involve yourself in something constructive, you _will_ fall most terribly ill." Nasher declared with resoluton.

"My…my Lord! I shall do as you command."


	3. Chapter 3

I

Nevalle watched the sun descend toward the horizon. It glowed a brilliant shade of orange and with a splash of pink and red, dipped behind the hills. On the other end of the sky, the cloak of darkness began to draw.

"I guess we'll call it a day here then, old boy." He spoke to his white steed, dusty from the road and the long ride. It was a habit, he only indulged when alone.

He turned his gaze toward the steppe behind which the sun had sunk and scanned until his eyes rested upon the palisade wall of Fort Locke and was relieved. He had pushed himself extremely hard the past few days in order to make the best time and avoid having to break his journey at Crossroad Keep. Having sighted Locke meant that he had met his goal and could stop over for a day or two and recover. Weary, he urged the horse up the gentle gradient of the road that meandered into the fort.

"Halt!" A young fresh-faced Greycloak sentry stopped Nevalle's progress. "Who goes there?"

Dusk had fallen and the torchlight threw flickering shadows across the boy's face. His hair was sandy and his cheeks deeply freckled. With a twinge of pity, Nevalle noted that his right arm was missing, no doubt an injury sustained in the recent war. The undead horde had over-run Fort Locke and nearly slaughtered the entire garrison. Although repairs were well underway and much had been restored, all the garrisons in the area suffered from the same shortage of manpower that Nevalle remembered from Crossroad. Too many Greycloaks had died; too many villages had been razed. There were not enough young people left to recruit and those that were bore such grave scars as this young man before him, maimed for life.

"Greetings brave soldier! My name is Sir Nevalle, Knight of the Realm. I ride from Neverwinter on Lord Nasher's business and wish to break my journey at Fort Locke."

"Of course Sir! Please enter! The Commander shall be informed immediately!"

The sweet aroma of freshly baked bread wafted into the room and Nevalle welcomed it eagerly. He had been on the road for two weeks and for one such as him, accustomed to good dining, fine wine and the comforts of the Nevalle manor in Blacklake District, the break from beef jerky and nothing but a thin bedroll between him and the rocks was much needed. He looked forward to sleeping restfully for a few days.

"Sir Nevalle?" Nevalle coloured just slightly, realising the thought of food had so distracted and immersed him that he had lost track of the Commander's conversation.

"Yes, Commander Tann, please continue. I am afraid my exhaustion is getting the best of me tonight, please excuse my lapse."

"It's quite understandable, Sir. Please do not apologise. I was merely saying that merchant traffic has finally begun to appear on the roads again. It's a good omen; nothing says things are back to normal like merchants travelling with full coffers."

Much to Nevalle's delight, they were interrupted by an orderly announcing dinner and a trolley laden with the best cuisine the cook at Fort Locke could prepare at short notice. He needed little coaxing to partake of the roasted turkey and smoked ham without reserve, and even relished the chicken and onion stew that he normally did not care for much. It was only after he had spent some time satisfying himself that he began to think that his enthusiasm might have shocked the Fort Locke commanding officer. To his comfort however, the Commander seemed to be preoccupied with other thoughts.

"My Lord, it had been bearing on my mind sir, but you were acquainted with her Ladyship at Crossroad Keep, were you not, sir?"

All the pleasure Nevalle had gathered from the feast extinguished at once and that all too familiar pain clenched like a fist around his heart. A displaced memory of her laughter, suddenly drifted through his mind: a clear sky, a light breeze, the warmth of a late spring sun, some long forgotten joke. It faded quickly leaving an aching maw in its place.

"That is correct. We…we fought together at Crossroad, during the siege."

"I heard a terrible rumour sir. Is it true that the Knight Captain is no longer amidst us? That she never returned from the Mere of Dead Men?"

Nevalle sighed and lowered his head, unable to find words for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice was thick. "Yes, regretably, it is true Commander Tann. The Knight Captain... my team and I spent many weeks down in the bog searching for survivors but all we found were remains. It is Neverwinter's great loss."

"I am sorry, Sir. Please forgive my rudeness. I thought it was just foul rumour. I had the great fortune of associating with her Ladyship. Long ago, she passed through here on her way to Neverwinter. I owed much gratitute to her ladyshop. This is very unfortunate, sir."

"It is Tann, it is a tragic loss…" he paused, "I don't have words to express how deeply I feel it."

Commander Tann did not broach the topic of the Knight Captain or Crossroad Keep again, even though there were times when he nearly felt compelled to do so. There were questions in his mind: he wanted to discuss the Keep's tactics against the undead especially since his own had failed. He wanted to hear the stories of epic bravery and courage that had made so many rounds around his camp from a veteran of the battle but in that one time he had touched the subject with Nevalle he had sensed the Knight's was not comfortable with the subject and wished to cause him no further inconvenience.

Thankful for this courtesy, Nevalle lingered at the Fort longer than he had initially intended. The routine of an outpost garrison felt familiar to him, it reminded him of happy days at Crossroad but there were no familiar faces, familiar buildings and fields, familiar battlements and towers to freshen his wounds each time his gaze fell upon them.

It was orderly and routine. Each morning he watched the Greycloaks drill in the courtyard of the Fort and train under their sergeants. Commander Tann took salute and then the patrols marched off to their duties. The faces were different and his eyes did not search for her, his ears did not strain for her voice every time.

It was so easy to relax in the peaceful monotony that Nevalle hardly noticed the days melting into one another. And before he knew, one morning he woke to the horrible realisation that the three day stopover he had intended had somehow stretched to nine days. Wracked with guilt and angry with himself, he rushed out of bed and dressed quickly but when he stepped outside to his even greater shock he learnt he was late for the morning drill as well. It was a rude awakening: for the first time in his life, Nevalle had overslept while on duty.

Harshly chiding himself, he threw his things together and hastily began to make provisions for the next leg of his journey. It would not be as arduous as the journey from High-Cliff to Fort Locke sans Crossroad but it was still substantial and there was much in the way of preparation that he had to undertake. To his increasing impatience and annoyance, the trivial last minute details kept delaying him and finally by mid-afternoon he had to resign to the fact that he could not leave the same day and had to impose upon Tann's hospitality for yet another night.

Early the next morning however, before anyone else had risen and dawn was yet to break, Nevalle set off toward Old Owl Well in a somewhat different frame of mind than when he had arrived.

II

Five days of riding sixteen hours a day stood between him and his lapse at Fort Locke. He had cut back on his rest and pushed himself even harder to assuage his guilt and was pleased to enter the foothills on the fifth day instead of the tenth that others on the route usually managed. What was more, noon was scarcely behind him and he could reach his destination well in time for dusk. In the distance ahead, the rugged outline of the Sword Mountains stood against the horizon; the greens of the coast had faded into the dusty browns of the rocky, barren foothills. The air was devoid of moisture and the tightly packed earth upon which Nevalle rode baked in the sun.

Just as he quenched his thirst and poured the last of his water over his head to cool down, his ears picked up the faint, distant sounds of what he figured must be a scuffle. Intrigued, he manoeuvred the steed toward the source of the noise and made his way gingerly down a narrow track into the ravine from which the noise seemed to originate.

Steep rock face reached high on either side and blocked out the afternoon sun. Clumps of thorny undergrowth sprouted from the granite and more than once the steep dusty decline made his horse lose balance and stumble. All the while the sounds of a fight raging somewhere down below rose up to him louder and clearer.

"Cowards! Pick up that spear! Charge! You nitwit! Good for nothing barbarian! I'm not paying you a dime for this! You hear!"

A stream of blue coloured fireworks exploded behind the rocks that barred Nevalle's vision, followed by a flash of light so strong that it nearly blinded him. A cacophony of shouts, screams and grunts rose anew as metal clashed against metal.

More incantations followed by even more brightly coloured flashes of light, forced Nevalle to dismount and leave his horse a safe distance away. He proceeded alone figuring that there was at least one powerful mage pitted against as yet unknown odds. Drawing his sword, he carefully made his way toward the clearing and paused behind the last boulder to catch a first glimpse of the fracas.

An elaborate stagecoach lay overturned and battered in the centre of what seemed to be a small orc camp. A single berserker stood backed against the coach doing his best to fend off five orc marauders. Perched at the highest point of the coach was a tall, silver haired wizard, hurling insults at his henchman and magic missiles at the orcs.

"Cover your right you great big foolish oaf!" He yelled at the berserker as the man parried the onslaught of an orc greataxe. "You'll get your head chopped off and I won't be sorry!"

Half-amused, Nevalle dived into the battle to even the odds for the besieged party.

Several minutes of intense effort later, the last of the orcs lay dead at his feet and he was finally able to wipe the sweat and blood off his brow and wipe his grimy hands across his bloodstained breaches. He inspected the cuts and scrapes garnered in the skirmish and noted the gash in the left sleeve of his tunic with great indignation. Still stuck in the sword coast and he had already lost the second of the three sets of uniform he had packed. The cut on his arm however was deep and he wondered if the salve he was carrying would be enough to mend it.

"Go! Go look for the horses, and don't come back without them! Useless bum! Or I'll make you lug this vehicle all the way to Waterdeep!"

The jarring litany pulled his attention away from the wound and Nevalle looked up to see the wizard carefully climbing down from his perch and picking his way over the orc corpses toward him. "Are you alright, sir?" He offered as the he reached him.

"Yes, fortunately, no thanks to my bodyguards! Useless, overpaid barbarians! They didn't last two minutes! If it hadn't been for you, why…these animals would have been done with me!"

"I'm sorry I couldn't save your men." Nevalle glanced at the lifeless bodies of two slain berserkers and felt a wave of uneasiness wash over him. He looked away He was tired of seeing young dead fighters. He had seen too many recently.

"I'm sorry I didn't hire more capable hands! I shudder to think, another minute and if you hadn't shown up!" Nevalle stared at the wizard, shocked the man honestly felt no concern for the fate of his servants, men who had sacrificed their lives safeguarding his. He did not find him amusing any more. "I can't afford to die in such shameful circumstances! At the hands of a band of orcs! Imagine! I'd be the laughing stock of the entire arcane world! Mystra have mercy!"

"What happened here exactly?" Nevalle asked, moving to wipe his blade upon a bearskin cloak of a fallen foe before sheathing it.

Sharp pain shot through his thigh as he shifted his weight to that leg. He noted the wide gash in his breaches and presumed that it must be the source of the searing pain coursing through his leg. The adrenaline had begun to fade and one by one the rest of his injuries were starting to come alive . He winced. It seemed he had acquired a few more cuts than he'd bargained for.

"I am on my way to a small station in this region named after some blasted Owl. Whoever thought of naming a way-station after an Owl!"

Nevalle blinked. The pain was increasing sharply.

"Anyway, I had just fallen asleep when a tremendous jolt threw me off my seat and before I knew it, the entire wagon was turning over, tumbling down into this ravine!"

He swept his arm toward the heap that remained of the wagon. "I was terrified! I thought the Plane was being sundered into two!" The wizard gestured dramatically.

"We landed in that clearing and suddenly these orcs were upon us! One of my guards was wounded already and they cut him down instantly. The second held on for a bit longer, but a hammer landed in his skull. I scrambled out of the vehicle and did what I could to defend myself."

"They surprised you. Was it a trap?" Nevalle finally located the tub of medicinal salve in his belt pouch and applied some into his most severe wounds. It would not be able to heal all of them but it would hopefully relieve the pain until he got to the camp and found a proper healer.

"No, no! That fool driver fell asleep and the carriage veered off road. I do hope the horses are alright. I have valuables in that carriage that I cannot possibly leave behind!"

"Right.", said Nevalle, leaning against a nearby boulder and waiting for the throbbing to subside. The wizard stayed right behind, oblivious to everything except the chance to rant.

"Yes, I'm on my way to the Arcane Casters Conference you see. I have highly significant findings to report. I do hope nothing is damaged!"

The blank look on Nevalle's face gave him away.

"You're not much into the sciences I see. It's quite alright. I wouldn't expect peasantry to understand. I am Startear in case my face is unfamiliar."

Nevalle smirked at his use of the word 'peasantry'. "Nevalle here."

The wizard appeared shocked, his jaw nearly dropping open. "Dear Mystra, you don't mean to say you have not heard of Startear, even by name?"

"I am afraid my responsibilities keep me distracted from certain things. I have not heard the name before."

"Sweet Mystra! Well, I suppose not everyone has access to the same standard of education as Waterdeep." Startear sighed and absent-mindedly brushed dust and debris off his robes.

"How come such an illustrious spellcaster as yourself had trouble with five measly orcs?" Nevalle countered raising an eyebrow but his attempt at sarcasm was lost on the wizard.

"Oh yes… that's the shame of it." Startear finished adjusting the collar of his robe and re-settled the Cap of Concentration +5 on his head. "You see, we have had a very eventful journey over the past few days. I was making my way through the Mere initially but there is much lizardfolk activity in that region. We were ambushed three times in two days! I decided it was too dangerous, perhaps it was the breeding season making them restless and decided to take a detour through the Sword Mountains. I knew the road through that Owl place was cleared up finally so we turned north, only to run into a group of bandits right out of the swamp!"

"The lizardfolk must be moving back into the Mere. Last year they had been forced into exile. The area has only recently returned to normal." Explained Nevalle but this was ignored.

"We dealt with the bandits and then there was the bugbear attack soon after. One thing right after another. There is only so much a man can deal with without rest! I had already cast all the spells I could remember and in my mental state…you should know what sleep deprivation can do to a man, I just couldn't recall anymore!"

"Don't you wizards have them written down or something, so you don't forget your spells during an emergency?"

"I have a whole chest full of scrolls! But of course I didn't have access to them from my position at the top of the carriage!

"But of course." Nevalle glanced ruefully at the setting sun. His hopes of reaching Old Owl Well by late afternoon were dashed. It was already dusk.

"Say, you seem like a good sort of lad. Broad shoulders, strong arms – that sort of thing! I'll pay you 200 gold pieces to enter my service as far as Waterdeep." He looked expectantly into Nevalle's eyes. "Hmm? What do you say? It's a fine offer! Imagine all you could do with 200 gold coins!"

Nevalle did not have to imagine, he had often spent as much on alcohol alone at the Moonstone Mask. "I am already in the service of Neverwinter." He made his way to where he had left his horse with Startear following close at his heels.

"But, but…I need an escort! You have seen how useless these heathens are! I could pay you more! How about 300 gold pieces? I bet that's more money than you've ever seen!"

"I will have to decline, sir. I am on official business. However, I am headed toward the Old Owl Well garrison myself and would be happy to escort you there."

Since Startear would not leave the clearing until the stagecoach could be moved and his driver dared not return until at least one horse was recovered and Nevalle could not bring himself to abandon the mage, however annoying, he was forced to wait. When they finally reached the gates of Old Owl Well, it was a good three or four hours after dusk and the garrison had turned in for the night.

Nevalle felt guilty rousing the cantonment as news of his arrival spread. The night patrol sergeant escorted him to the tent that served as their Mess and waited on him while the Lieutenant was informed. No matter how much Nevalle insisted waking the Lieutenant was not necessary, the sergeant would hear none of it and barely within twenty minutes, a weary looking officer with tousled hair introduced himself as Callum's temporary successor and started barking orders immediately afterward.

"You there! Get that Halfling woman here, can't you see his lordship needs medical attention! Get the Quartermaster to release some Healing Kits – on the double!"

"Lordship?" Startear chimed in, "I'm fine, nary a scratch on me. I'm glad someone in this backwater knows my true worth, yes. You should focus your attention on my staff really, like this boy. He seems to have some cuts now that I notice."

Lieutenant Cassidy was not impressed by Startear's show of magnanimity. He was a man who did not like being roused in the middle of the night and therefore had been caught in a less than forbearing mood. He regarded Startear from head to toe and addressed Nevalle without responding to the wizard.

"Your acquaintance, Sir Nevalle?"

"In a manner of speaking. Mr Startear had a bit of a run-in with an orc camp. Fortunately I was able to lend my assistance just in time."

"I offered to pay him a great amount of money as reward for his services, if only he'd escort me to Waterdeep. I must get there in time for the Arcane Caster's Conference, but he will not listen to me! You seem like a sensible person, knock some sense into his head! 300 gold pieces and he still refuses me!"

"Hold your tongue, wizard! I will not allow you to insult one of the Nine in my camp!"

"What Nine? What about the other Eight? Are they here? I can hire one of the others to take me to Waterdeep, if they're half as competent!"

"Why you!" Cassidy reached for his sword but Nevalle caught his arm.

"Calm yourself Lieutenant, this man is a foreigner. Please allow him to camp here until he can find escort to his destination. Let him not remember the forces of Neverwinter as indifferent to the plight of travellers."

Just then, the sergeant burst into the Mess Hall carrying a sack full of Healing Kits and a sleepy female Halfling in tow.

"Why do you make a habit of disturbing me in the middle of the night, Cassidy!"

Nevalle felt no bigger than the rather incensed Halfling woman. "I'm profusely sorry, madam. It is my fault."

"Sir Nevalle just arrived, Ms Simmy, bearing injuries that need your attention. I am sorry but I was forced to call for you."

The Halfling woman's expression visibly softened as her eyes rested on Nevalle. She climbed the chair beside him and started to inspect his injuries. "Oh dear me, you seem to have made quite a work of yourself. I hope my rusty skills can help here." I need a bunch of good Kits Jonathan and some spirits and put some water to boil."

"I think there's a cut on my finger too!"

Startear was ignored. Cassidy summoned the Mess Secretary and ordered the preparation of food and lodging and then poured a tumbler of whiskey for Nevalle and himself. As an afterthought, he poured another one for the confused and indignant wizard.

The next morning when Nevalle awoke, it was well into the day but for a change he did not feel as if he was neglecting his assignment. His back felt stiff and his shoulder throbbed when he stretched but he pushed himself up and out of bed. His gaze fell upon the cotton gauze bandages with which the Halfling had secured his wounds and winced. Pain still throbbed when he flexed the affected muscles, and as he dressed and left the room, he had to admit putting weight on his right leg was difficult. He made his way to the Mess tent to get some breakfast.

"Ah, there you are my boy! Please join me! I had been in wait for you. Are you feeling any better? Can I get you something?"

Nevalle blinked at Startear, baffled by the mage's abrupt change of attitude. "I believe I'll heal fine, but thank you for your concern." He took the chair the wizard had reserved for him and watched incredulous as Startear poured him some tea. "I'm a bit surprised." He finally said.

"Oh, I must apologise to you. I might have been a tad unfair. I've only recently learned that you are a Knight of this Realm. Forgive my rudeness yesterday!" Nevalle raised an eyebrow as he accepted the toast Startear had gone through the trouble of buttering for him. "You must admit, though, given the circumstances of our meeting my mistake was hardly unwarranted! Dust and grime make it difficult to tell the nobility apart from the peasantry, hmm?"

Nevalle did not know whether to graciously accept his apology or take offence at being referred to as a grimy peasant. For the sake of civility he went with the former. He was spared from replying by the entrance of Lieutenant Cassidy at that moment.

"I had been informed you were up, Sir and I sought to beseech you for the pleasure of your company for tea."

Nevalle's upbringing demanded he rise to greet the senior soldier yet his leg forbade it. He winced a little but drew to his feet. "Please, Lieutenant, be seated. The pleasure is mine alone."

A waiter brought in more tea and some exquisitely aromatic scones. Nevalle's spirits improved at once.

"How is Old Owl Well doing, Lieutenant?"

"Sir Callum's loss has been felt deeply by his troops here as you can well imagine, but the construction proceeds as quickly as we could hope. We have managed to finish the Wall as you may have noticed when you reached here last night. The barracks are only partially complete but we managed to get the Quartermaster's Stores up. The equipment must be secure even if we have to sleep in the rain!"

"True!" Nevalle agreed wholeheartedly, "What about the orcs? We ran into a camp not far from here as I explained yesterday."

"Yes, well the tribes are still scattered and bickering among themselves. Sometimes they raid but not in any significant numbers. They have not been able to organise as before. We had Sir Callum to thank for that."

"Indeed. My squire…previous…squire…later knighted…was able to provide valuable assistance to Sir Callum in that effort." Nevalle said with no small amount of pride.

_Lord Nasher has summoned you to Neverwinter immediately. 'What is the matter?'__ I was not told but you must ride at once. _He remembered that night well. She had just returned to the castle and had stopped at the Inn in the courtyard. He went down to find her and gave her Lord Nasher's orders, making the whole thing sound as grave as he could. Alarmed and unsuspecting, she agreed to set out for the Capital at once.

'_But you must know something! Did Nasher seem upset? Is everything alright? But I have done all that he ordered! The alliance with the Ironfists and the Lizardfolk, I negotiated them both. I sent men for the City Watch as requested. Don't you know anything about this?' _ Throughout the journey she pressed him for information, and throughout he pretended to know no more than herself. While beneath the façade he was bursting with excitement in anticipation of what awaited her in Neverwinter.

When they finally reached the city he had to convince her Nasher would not receive them direct off the road and she must stop at his manor and dress for court. '_But you said it was extremely urgent! He must not be kept waiting!' _

They entered Castle Never and instead of going straight for the Great Hall he pulled her aside into an antechamber. _'What are you doing? Nasher is waiting!' _ She was bewildered. He draped the Neverwinter Cloak across her shoulders and presented the Ceremonial Sword. The memory of her expression at that moment was strong – deeply perplexed, completely unaware. Her iridescent green eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. Overcome, he caught her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. For so long he had wanted to taste those lips, drink her sweet breath. He was moved to kiss her but it never happened. Pandemonium broke, there were Shadow Reavers everywhere and the moment was lost forever.

"You knew her then? She was with the City Watch at the time. I heard about Lady Crossroad, most unfortunate."

_Her name wasn't Crossroad_. _Her name was…_he could not bring himself to finish the thought. The feelings he had only recently managed to repress suddenly threatened to surface and he could not afford to lose composure. He wanted to dwell in the pleasant memories, run them over and over again in his head. They kept the darker thoughts at bay. If he thought of nothing else but happy days and happy thoughts like the green of her eyes or the pink of her lips, he could almost forget that she was dead. He reached for the cup of tea in front of him and gulped it down.

"The Ironfist dwarves have a new clan-leader or King as they call him. They say that he led the dwarves at Crossroad. Since you were there as well, I thought if the rumours were you true, you might know him."

"There was an Ironfist I was acquainted with, name of Khelgar but I have reason to believe the entire strike force that went after the King of Shadows perished in the Mere. I spent many weeks searching for survivors and remains down there but we recovered no dwarf."

"I see" Cassidy was struck by the gloom that had suddenly crept into Nevalle's eyes and did not know how to continue.

"It is my duty to visit the Ironfist Stronghold. I shall head out tomorrow if you will mark it on my map." Nevalle resolved, meeting Cassidy's gaze. His eyes were burnished blue steel. The melancholy was gone, and only remnants of the iron will taken to banish it lingered.

III

"Ruddy mule! Steady I say!" squealed Startear, struggling to get his horse under control but the animal spooked by the sliding rocks, kept rearing regardless. "Blasted animal! Why couldn't we bring the carriage? I much prefer sitting on a comfortable seat with a glass of sherry in hand and the newspaper than on a beast!"

"This road isn't wide enough for your carriage, besides it can only go so far on three wheels. You didn't have to come, Startear. I told you to stay behind. " Nevalle explained for the hundredth time, bringing his horse up beside the startled animal and catching its bridle to lead it away from the cascade of tiny pebbles down the ridge Startear had somehow managed to start.

"Nonsense! I couldn't possibly abandon you to make this trip alone. The Captain said there may be bugbears in this region! You aren't in the best shape. That fool Halfling woman doesn't know what she's doing. Had I known even first level divine spells, I could have restored you in a blink."

"Thank you for your concern but I'm quite well now." His words rang hollow. The truth was Nevalle really did need a proper healer. He was still not able to walk without favouring his injured leg and it slowed him down considerably. He felt weak and feverish as if his very constitution was affected. His shoulders were still stiff and his arms lacked strength. "The entrance is just beyond that turn."

"Finally! What a foolish place to build a stronghold."

"It is quite secure actually. There is only one approach, narrow at that. They could post archers on either side. It's easily defensible. The path twists every few hundred yards and would break up the forces of would be aggressors, giving plenty of opportunity for ambushes."

The look on Startear's face said all of Nevalle's tactical logic was completely wasted on him.

They made their way down the path and up again as it twisted northward. As they reached the crest of the slope Nevalle spotted two surly looking dwarves standing beside a cave entrance. They wielded oversized warhammers and their wild hair and beards made quite the impression on Startear, rendering him speechless. They stared straight at the two men as if expecting them and Nevalle was certain that, as he had suspected, they had been tracked all along.

"Greetings Ironfist. I am Sir Nevalle of Neverwinter. I was in the area and wished to convey my regards to your new Clan-chief. May I seek audience with him?"

"Hmph, about time. We fought at Crossroad when Neverwinter asked and you were quick to forget your 'allies' yet again!" The older and surlier of the two retorted grimly. His beard was intricately plaited unlike the simple knotted style worn by the other. He gestured to his partner and together they unbarred the gate.

"Khayar! They be men from Neverwinter. Take them to the throne room." He ordered the dwarf standing guard within.

Nevalle stepped inside and looked around. Before him a corridor stretched into the belly of the mountain. Torches mounted along the walls provided a sickly yellow illumination and cast long flickering shadows across the ceiling. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed the chiselled walls and ceilings. The entire entrance seemed to have been carved from solid rock by hand.

"This place is amazing!" He thought aloud.

"We Ironfists made it, by our own hands!" Unwittingly, Nevalle had managed to improve his image in the dwarven escort's mind.

"I hope there are no spiders. I hate the nasty little fiends!"

The dwarf gave Startear a look of utter disdain and grunted in disapproval. Nevalle smiled apologetically and hoped that Startear would not wear their welcome thin too soon. He wished for the umpteenth time he had had the gall to sneak out of the camp without the wizard no matter how rude he was later perceived.

The dwarf led them through a series of corridors. Nevalle noticed many of the doors were locked. At the end of the hall, there was a door open and they stepped inside. Training dummies lined the far wall, armor and weapon racks lined the rest. A handful of dwarves, stripped down to their waists and barefooted brandished various weapons. Some were preoccupied charging the wooden dummies. The rest looked up at the visitors. None appeared welcoming.

"Oye Khayar, what are them surface dwellers doin' here?" A few demanded.

"From Neverwinter, takin' 'em to the throne room." The dwarf leading Nevalle replied.

Startear kept glancing at him with a mixture of misery and frustration and Nevalle knew he was no longer alone in regretting the wizard's presence. They passed through a huge hall lined with tables and chairs and Nevalle noticed that though they stretched long, the tables barely reached as high as his knees; the chairs were similarly low. He glanced at the ceiling for reference and it struck him suddenly that though the height of the chamber was about normal for one of his height, the ceiling was meant to be soaring by dwarven standards. He marvelled again at the effort taken to carve this sanctuary from solid rock.

The Ironfists in the Great Hall looked up at the two humans and their faces turned dour. Nevalle returned their severe glare by what he hoped was a suitably pleasant smile and began to wonder if coming to the stronghold, unwelcome as he felt, had been a mistake.

They were herded toward a room separated from the Great Hall by a series of arches. Dwarven sentries stood guard along the columns armed with waraxes. Their beards all plaited in the same fashion as the dwarf who had received them at the entrance. Nevalle wondered if it was symbolic of some status.

"Wait here." Khayar ordered and walked ahead through the arches into what Nevalle guessed must have been the throne room.

It felt awkward standing alone with only the fidgety wizard for company as an entire clan of grim-faced dwarves mostly armed and each one dangerous stared them down. Nevalle could not help but suspect they might suddenly turn on them, and wished he had cultivated better ties with the force assembled at Crossroad Keep. He mused whether leaving his weapon behind with the horse was such a good idea after all. He looked at Startear and grudgingly acknowledged that if they were suddenly attacked, the wizard's spells may be the only thing that could see them to safety and decided to forgive the wizard for tagging along after all.

"Aye, he'll see you. Let them in." Much to his relief, Khayar the dwarf returned and allowed them through into the king's presence.

"Khelgar!"

"Why it is you! The Gods be praised! You're alive!" A flood of relief washed over Nevalle to see the familiar face upon the throne. "Khelgar! Khelgar! My good fellow, how wonderful to see you!" He dashed forward only to be checked by the henchmen surrounding the dwarf, just as severe and unimpressed despite Nevalle's outpouring of goodwill.

"Let him through, let him through. I know this man. Sir Nevalle, I remember you well." Khelgar waved his retinue off and grasped Nevalle's hand. His was the only face even remotely friendly towards the Knight.

"It's such a pleasure, Khelgar to see you alive and well. My men and I, we searched for weeks in the rubble but we found nothing. I found nothing. We were…we thought…I believed the worst." He stumbled with the words, overwhelmed by the sight of one of her company alive.

Abruptly a wild hope shot through his heart, "The others? Are they here? Did they make it? …is she…is the Knight-Captain?"

"Not all of us survived Sir Nevalle." Khelgar's voice was grim and dashed his hopes.

Nevalle sank down on the steps before the throne. His knees felt weak and he did not trust himself to remain standing. The wild hope that had suddenly, unexpectedly stirred his heart into frenzy had evaporated and it was so sudden and strong and was over so quicky that the emptiness that followed in its wake left him nearly undone. His thoughts scattered and escaped his grasp. He stared into the flagstones, struggling to compose himself.

Khelgar continued, "Casavir died, trying to keep of us alive. Crushed. Good man, he was, to the end."

Nevalle shook his head. It looked as if he was merely remorseful but really he wished Khelgar would stop. He did not want to hear him say she was dead. He did not want to hear how she had died. How painful her last moments were, a thousand tons of stone crushing the breath from her. He wanted to hear none of those details. He wrapped a hand around his chin, anything to retain his composure. Realising in dismay that if the dwarf spoke of her death, in this very cavern, in Khelgar's presence, surrounded by the entire Ironfist clan, then he a Knight of the Realm and one of Lord Nasher's Nine, would break.

"That little gnome, gone as well…noble fool threw himself to protect that heap of tin he'd put together."

"The tree-hugger too. Never put much stock in them tree-dwellers but she stuck by us through to the end. Hated buildings, died in the falling down of one. Couldn't pull her out. Couldn't even see her under the slabs."

An elf. The memory of the slender elf body came to him. "Elanee, the druidess? I think…we recovered her remains. We were not able to identify at the time; I am afraid the swamp was not kind to her."

"Don't know what happened to the Gith, didn't see her... dead or alive." Khelgar hesitated and Nevalle looked up, silently imploring the dwarf not to continue. He thought Khelgar could understand him and was giving pause before the final blow but such was not the case.

"The demon-girl lives. She said she was heading off to Waterdeep. Said she knew some people there who could find where they took…" Khelgar looked straight into the Knight's eyes and the anguish contained therein, "where they took…her."

Nevalle did not follow. He was still numb with refreshed grief, in a semi-automated state. He nodded without comprehension, waiting for Khelgar to proceed. He stared without seeing, his mind awash in a kaleidoscope of memories: images, sounds, feelings all beyond his grasp, swirling just out reach.

Khelgar saw the Knight was upset and unnerved but did not in the slightest understand why and continued, oblivious to his plight. "Sand went to some fool place I can't remember, to meet someone he knows who might know who they were."

Finally gaining a hold over his wits, Nevalle found himself confused and looked at Khelgar uncomprehending. "I am sorry. What do you mean? Where did they go? Who are they looking for? I don't follow."

"What's wrong with ye!" Khelgar bellowed. "I told you they took her!" A hush fell over the entire throne room and even the Great Hall beyond: everyone silenced by Khelgar's sudden fury.

"I'm sorry. I just don't understand."

Khelgar softened and fidgeted in his chair, uneasy. Nevalle realised his sudden outburst was more because he did not relish the idea of explaining rather than genuine anger at him. His confusion increased manifold. What could possibly be so impossible to explain that it unsettled the dwarf to this extent?

"We fought the King of Shadows, two times! Drove him back into the darkness, killed all his mini-shadows too! It was a glorious! And we had to fight that blasted Garius all over again! That was the good too! But red-haired witch-girl turned on us and forced us to fight her. I didn't like that part. I don't like killing people I've supped and fought alongside with."

"When the final fight was done, the whole building started to cave in. Bad construction…them tree-hugger buildings, always said they weren't safe! It was no good I tell you. It just gave in, walls started coming down, bits of the ceiling falling in. Everybody running, shouting, it was mad!"

The dwarf paused, reliving those terrible moments and Nevalle felt guilty for making him recall memories that were best left forgotten.

"We made a mad dash towards the door. The demon-girl went skipping over the rocks and was out first of all. The rubble started pouring and was going to block the door but Casavir tried to keep the way open. It was what did him in, in the end. Noble, he lived, noble he died." He paused again.

"Just before I went through I looked one last time over my back and didn't see her…she wasn't following us. Then I saw her…lying…just lying in the centre of the floor…must've been knocked out by something I figure. Jerro…that demon hocus-pocus fellow saw her too and we both turned to get her."

"Do you mean the Knight-Captain?" Nevalle felt that surge of dismay but this time he had steeled himself, was prepared and fought hard to subdue it. He would not let his voice fall, he would not falter. He clenched his fist until his nails dug into his flesh; the pain would remind him, hold him steady.

"Ye, yer Knight Captain, she went fighting like a hellcat. She came to her senses just in time and got to her feet, saw us returning and started shouting, telling us not to turn back, that she was going to follow. Then suddenly… I don't know what happened….a big hole just opened in the air in front of her."

Khelgar shook his head and struck his fist into the armrest. "A hole…like someone tore open the air… three huge things…like those earth giants you magic people conjure up," he gestured toward Startear, "they just stepped out of nowhere, through that hole… black as the night…like shadow, 'cept solid. Captain didn't see 'em at first. They made a grab for her. Jerro blasted them but they weren't even fazed. Picked her up, she started to kick and scream but didn't have anything in hand to fight with…I ran after 'em, my great-axe I knew I could've chopped them with it, but they just stepped through that hole and were gone…and then Jerro leapt into the hole after em and was gone too. I was going to follow but it vanished, just empty air. I didn't know what to do. I heard the others yelling, so I rushed out after them. That's the last we saw of her and Ammon Jerro."

"It was a portal! That's what it was! A portal into another Plane! How very exciting!"

Nevalle felt the whole room teeter. Startear's voice was drowned. _She was alive_. There was a constriction in his throat; his lungs seemed to be filling with tar. His eyes were heavy and a shrill high pitched whistle seemed to ring through every living fibre of his being. Sharp and high, its whine blocked out all other sound. Everything was dull, muffled and distant. He felt light-headed, like he was falling down through the floor, sinking, caught in the pull of gravity, hurtling down into emptiness. _She didn't die. He never found her body because she didn't die.. She was alive. There was no body. She was alive. She was alive..._


	4. Chapter 4

I

He had been pacing up and down that small tent that served as his sleeping quarters that entire night. Nevalle raised the bottle of scotch to his lips and took a long swig. It did nothing to clear his head only confounded him further but he cared not in the least. The bottle emptied. He let it drop and it started rolling off but he did not notice. He took a few steps and tripped over it, stumbling forward. The pain in his thigh, usually dull, jolted to life, searing through his leg. He bit his lower lip to keep from yelling out, growing even more frustrated at his helplessness.

"Gods damn it!" he slurred, kicking the empty scotch bottle out of the way and reached the far end of the tent. He parted the door flaps and looked out, inhaling the sweet night air, the inebriation waning just a bit. The sky was dashed with blue and he realised dawn was near.

It had been several months since the crisis with the King of Shadows. Winter had come and gone, it was late spring and summer was just around the corner. _She could be anywhere._ Khelgar had heard from neither Ammon Jerro nor any of the others gone off in various directions in search of clues. _She could be dead by now._ _No!_ He could not afford to think along those lines. She was alive. She had to be alive. He simply could not bear the thought of losing her again. He would go mad. But where to find her?

For the hundredth time that night, he debated going back to the Mere of Dead Men to see if there was anything in the rubble that would tell him where the mysterious shadow elementals Khelgar described had fled. But he knew he would find nothing. And if on the odd chance something had been left behind, the likelihood that he could recover something in the all consuming swamp so many months later was next to non-existent. _But not impossible._

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it to fucking Hell!" He gritted his teeth; he was using profanity now. It was not something he indulged: he considered it beneath his station to swear like common peasantry.

A portal that looked like a hole. Three elementals that looked like they were formed of solid shadow. Those were all the clues he had.

"All portals look like fucking holes!" He said aloud, using profanity again. This time he no longer cared if he sounded like a drunken sailor.

He dragged back to his bunk and threw himself down on it. His thigh was throbbing with pain; he'd been standing on it for so many hours, pacing in this tiny cramped space back and forth ever since he had returned, to no avail. He had no answers. On one hand he had his mission: Nasher's direct, unequivocal orders to reach Rashemen post haste, and on the other he had this to deal with – could he ignore it as mad rambling of a drunken dwarf, hallucinations conjured by a mind terribly traumatised by what it had endured. It must have been dark after all and the commotion great, as the Shadow Temple caved in around Khelgar. He was devoted to her. Had he not insisted on taking her place during the Rite of Tyr, when Torio Claven challenged Nasher's verdict through Trial by Combat. Nevalle frowned. Now that he considered it, the possibility that Khelgar had imagined everything was quite real. Perhaps what he really saw was the darkness swallowing her, crushing her. He himself had recovered her cloak. He had held it in his very hands. Himself pulled out the torn fabric, buried under tonnes of slab. If something or someone had abducted her, why would they have taken the trouble to rip off her cloak and leave it behind for him to mourn over, yet he could not shake the thought… _She was alive._

"Damn it!"

Months had passed, even if something had taken her that night, Nevalle had to consider the probability that she was dead by their hands now. He felt that familiar surge, that blight settling over him at the thought. _No! She was alive. _She had to be, he simply could not bear to lose her again. He must find her. _But how?_

All he had to go on was a dark portal and three shadowy elementals.

A vast green landscape stretched to infinity all around him. Gentle rolling hills dipped and surged, lush with pale blossoms and verdant grass; the sky a rich azure canopy above. Billowy plumes of cloud, white as snow drifted leisurely and behind them, peeking in and out was a kind yet invigorating sun. Its warmth enveloped all, gentle like a kiss, everything bathed in golden bloom.

He treaded carefully over the soft moss beneath his bare feet, drenched in dew and cool against his skin, amazed by this perfectly glorious landscape. Wild flowers, delicate and soft brushed against him and the breeze wrapped around him like a loving embrace. It was so peaceful, so tranquil, so perfect. Up and down the slopes he strolled, never tiring; every step effortless and comforting.

He climbed the knoll in front to a vantage point. Before him the slopes eased away and the sight of an expansive lake, gleaming like quicksilver in the lap of the hills, stretched before him. Sunlight danced upon its surface, reflecting as brilliantly as a finely cut diamond. The sight was so enchanting, for many moments he found himself spellbound and could not remove his eyes from the waters. Then he noticed, in stark contrast to the rest of the scene, a dark blemish on the opposite embankment.

Nevalle moved to the edge of the lake, the water touched his toes; it was cool, the crash of waves upon the shore soothing, yet the dark shadow he had seen on the far side intrigued him more. He squinted against the sunlight trying to make out and as his eyes adjusted he realised it was the mouth of a cave. He felt pulled towards the cave, something like gravity but different, more subtle yet just as insistent drew him. He felt compelled to immerse himself in the water and swim across.

Every stroke invigorated and renewed him. No matter how fast he swam or how hard he kicked his legs, propelling himself across the lake he did not tire. It was as if he was floating through air. Nothing offered any resistance to him.

He reached the shore and stood before the entrance to the cave. An outcropping of rock, laden with ferns and moss projected over the opening and no light penetrated the darkness within. Whatever drew him here was within the shadows. The urge was stronger than ever, every cell in his body felt compelled to answer that call. Nevalle moved closer still, to the very edge of the cave and strained to make out the source of the great pull upon him.

He shielded his face from the glare of the sun and narrowed his eyes. His heart began to beat faster, just beyond in the darkness he seemed to make out a human form. He took the last few steps and entered the cave.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the figure before him became clear. It was a woman. She seemed to be sitting with her legs folded back neatly under her, back straight and completely still. The only movement was in her hair: caught in the breeze, tugging lightly and swaying gently like a curtain. He noticed there was not a stitch of clothing upon her. Feeling awkward and embarrassed to find a woman thus, he reached to unhook his cloak to throw upon her, struggling to avert his eyes but to no avail. His eyes held fast. Her back arched statuesquely, flowing into her shoulders and arms, and then tapered into a narrow waist before rounding out into her hips. The skin, pale and smooth was just slightly sun-kissed. There was a familiarity about the figure that teased him and he scoured his mind to place it.

The rich hazel brown hair tumbling past her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the too familiar tone of her skin and then all of a sudden it struck him, like a bolt of thunder. _Her! It was her!_ He leapt forward, his hands trembling and knees weak, her name tumbling off his tongue but no sound came out. He called to her again and again, yelled at the top of his lungs but all remained silent. He reached out to take her still, silent form in his embrace but met no resistance. To his dismay, he finally realised he was incorporeal. And then everything began to fade and melt around him.

He woke with a start.

II

His heart felt heavy and Nevalle tasted salt. Dried tears stained his cheeks and he realised he had been crying through the dream. He could not remember when sleep had overcome him. It was uncomfortably warm inside the tent and his head pounded. There was a thin sheet of perspiration all over his body and he felt very hot. Suddenly his stomach lurched and he retched, quickly he reached for the pitcher of water on the rickety table beside the bunk and drank deep. As cool water trickled down his gullet, he felt a little improved. The sun was high and everything within the tent was bathed in a stiff golden light; he guessed it must be well past noon. Cursing himself, he splashed his face with water to drive away the sleep and groggily pulled on his clothes. The Lieutenant would be worried, he would have to look for him, apologise and offer some explanation, but first he had to find some coffee to cancel the effects of all the alcohol he had imbibed. His stomach growled and he could not remember when he had last eaten.

"How terrible you look!" Startear attacked him as soon as he entered the mess lounge, staring down his nose disapprovingly at him, "You stayed up all night didn't you!"

"I need coffee." It was all he said, sinking down into an armchair beside the wizard and pressing his fingers to his temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing in his head.

"You've been drinking too!" Startear shook his head and requested a mess attendant who had shown up, to bring some coffee for them.

"I don't need a lecture, Startear."

"Hmph! Well, you could use one. Look at yourself. Do you know what time it is?" "It's 3 pm! …In the afternoon!'

"Just stop." He leaned back, rubbing his forehead and trying to clear his head but Startear carried on his ranting without pause and all Nevalle could do was stop listening.

Soon enough, the coffee arrived and much to Nevalle's satisfaction, the cook had thoughtfully included some shepherd pie. He poured himself a mug and sampled a piece of the pie, it was just passable but famished as he was, he did not complain. The coffee eased his headache somewhat and he found the hangover from his binge drinking receding.

"I've been giving yesterday's events some deep thought." Startear finally mumbled through a mouthful of food.

Nevalle did not reply. He looked at the wizard, his expression halfway between simply sullen and downright aggravated. Startear grated on his nerves every minute and he did not relish the thought of him interfering in his personal affairs.

"In Waterdeep, my place has state of the art scrying equipment! I wager I could locate your Lady friend in no time. I just need to get there."

So that was what he was after, thought Nevalle. Of all the unscrupulous things he would never have put past Startear, using _her_ as leverage to coerce him into going to Waterdeep had not crossed Nevalle's mind. It was a new low, even for him.

"It is nothing to concern yourself about, wizard." He said, fighting to restrain the surge of anger building within. "I have explained to you before, I am on official business and cannot neglect my orders." That much was true but as anger subsided, that fickle thing called hope, eager to rush at any mention of the remotest possibility, surfaced in its stead. _Maybe he could scry her out. She was alive. He was a wizard...maybe…maybe…No! _He would be strong in the face of this, not given in to weakness. Not allow this devious man to manipulate him into disobeying Nasher's direct orders. It would be treason.

Nevalle felt hot under his collar and loosened it. He sipped from his coffee, leaned back and closed his eyes to herald his thoughts. He was thinking mad things now. Truly Khelgar's unexpected revelation had at last driven him insane. To think his mind had wandered to such thoughts. To disobey Nasher! The shame it would bring to him, to his family. It was unthinkable. His first and foremost duty was to Neverwinter and to Lord Nasher, he reminded himself harshly.

His earliest memories were of that very duty being drilled into his mind. He had entered his father's service as squire when he was barely five years old. He rose before daybreak to tend to his morning duties before school, and until his mother tucked him back into bed, he trained at his father's side. In the beginning he learned to tend to his sword and armour and was taught the proper way to grease and polish his weapon, to scrub armour. Later on he trained to wield the blade, to move encapsulated in steel. Memories of years of grooming horses and clearing stables, swinging his father's much too big bastard sword at training dummies rose in his mind.

Once every month on Sunday at the Temple of Tyr, he would be presented to Nasher. Dressed in his best, his unruly hair finally combed into submission by his mother, his face scrubbed and his tiny heart bursting with pride; he would report his progress to the ruler of Neverwinter. Back then, Nasher appeared larger than life. A figure of huge proportions surrounded by a multitude of hulking men and Nevalle's tiny hands would tremble and sweat and his voice was never even. It was only once he had grown older, that he realised that Nevalle was no bigger than other men and the multitude surrounding him was just a handful of his bodyguard.

His father had been a Knight before him, and his father before him. They had served Neverwinter for generations, proudly laying down their lives to uphold her laws and integrity. He remembered his father on his deathbed, succumbing to injuries sustained in the war with Luskan. His mind had never been the same again, and his body was giving up as well. He had aged decades in the space of months and it was an old man who held fast Nevalle's hand and made him swear to live a life of honour and courage in service.

"I need a drink." He stated flatly. The mug of coffee was finished but the anguish he felt, torn between his orders and his longing for her remained strong as ever. He knew he could not drown it in alcohol but the urge to try anyway drove him.

"No you don't! Get a hold of yourself." Startear resumed his preaching going on endlessly about the evils of alcohol and how it would give him cirrhosis of the liver. Nevalle wanted to pummel him into the ground, instead he reached for another slice of the pie. When he had finally run out of admonitions, the wizard continued, "If only you'd listen to me. I really want to help you."

"At the cost of repeating myself, I cannot take a detour to Waterdeep. Lord Nasher has ordered me to Rashemen. I have to go."

"Oh! Rashemen! That's pretty far away. What could Neverwinter want with Rashemen. I'm surprised you even know it exists. It's on the other end of the world, next to Thay." Nevalle sighed, but Startear continued, oblivious to his consternation.

"Many years ago, when you were still defecating all over your nursemaids, I was in that area – Thay, and Rashemen too briefly. In Rashemen, they don't allow men to dabble in the arcane you know. They have witches…" Startear trailed off, seemingly lost in some memory.

"Thay has a number of arcane teaching institutions though," he continued abruptly. "I was a fellow once. When you get there, you'll hear much about Red Wizards, talented bunch they are." He paused again, lost in thought before picking up once more, "Oh yes, where was I… ah yes, now I remember. I didn't think you were going that far away. It complicates matters somewhat. Why, you may never return, unfriendly region I must say and that would throw a hatchet in my plans."

"You reassure me." Nevalle replied dryly.

"I suppose it can't be helped." Startear said with resignation, "Here. Take this." He handed Nevalle a short silver sceptre, about a foot in length, elaborately patterned all over. "The charge should, I think be just enough for there and back, and I strongly advise that you don't attempt the journey physically! It would take months, years even!"

Nevalle knit his brows in puzzlement. "What is this?" "I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

"Oh you are such a simpleton. I suppose you don't know how to cast from a wand?" Nevalle shook his head. He did not. "Well I guess I'll have to cast it for you the first time but pay attention because you'll have to bring yourself back."

"But what is it?" He was no less certain.

"It's a wand! What else could it be?" Startear exclaimed, annoyed. "It's a Wand of Teleportation. It can cast 'teleport person'. It will transport you to wherever you want, instantly. Only on this plane though, it doesn't do interplanar travel. The charge used depends on the distance. It should just be enough to take you to Rashemen and back, so don't go about wasting it, or you'll find yourself stranded halfway in the middle of nowhere!" "Whenever you're ready, let me know and I'll activate it. You'll be there in the blink of an eye."

Nevalle was mystified and speechless. It took him a few moments to wrap his mind around Startear's sudden generosity. "I'm…I don't know what to say. This… I cannot accept this. It must be very valuable."

"It is very valuable. Only a handful of people can do this magic and I can count them on my fingers. I paid a huge amount of money to acquire it. But I insist, you must take it and use it. I do owe you for saving my life back there. And debts must be paid off. Take it."

"But, why don't you use this to get to Waterdeep?" Nevalle still could not bring himself to accept Startear's valuable gift.

"Do you ever listen? It can only cast 'Teleport Person'! I can't leave my carriage behind; I have very valuable scrolls and materials inside. I must get everything to Waterdeep."

"Why do you want to give me this? It is very dear and you must have purchased it for a reason. I cannot accept this."

"Will you listen to the words that are coming out of my mouth! I owe you for saving my life!" Startear looked exasperated; he exhaled and then continued, "Look, I can tell what's bothering you. You want to look for the woman, but you can't turn away from this mission of yours. There's nothing we can do about her, until I get to Waterdeep. So my solution is to hasten you on your mission so you can deal with whatever you have to, then come to Waterdeep and look me up. It will take me a few more weeks to get there and there is the Conference as well. In the meantime, you can finish your business, meet up with me and I can scry for that woman. It's the best solution and it's the least I can do."


	5. Chapter 5

I

Surrounded by swirling black clouds, he neither sensed nor felt anything except being hurtled through space at an impossible velocity. An invisible grip hooked around his waist dragged him forward and a sense of displacement like nothing he had ever imagined forced his stomach hard against his lungs, crushing the very breath out of him. Smothered, he struggled for air where there was none and just when he could bear it no more and thought he would pass out, he was thrust outward and found himself tumbling onto a stretch of road.

"Oh Gods…" he groaned, his vision swayed into focus as air rushed back into his lungs. He raised himself to his hands and knees. Below him, his gaze rested on pebbles littered along the dirt road. The soil was a rich, reddish brown, and felt moist and fine against his palms unlike the coarse, dry dust of Old Owl Well. "Damn!" Had he really left the Sword Coast behind, he wondered incredulous and disoriented.

He looked around. It was dark but the sky was streaked with blue and light was just beginning to break upon the eastern horizon. Shocked, Nevalle scrambled to his feet. Just a few moments past, it was late afternoon. The sun had still been up. Here it was just before dawn. How long had it been, had the spell worked, was he still in the Sword Coast, he looked down at the silver sceptre still tightly clutched in his hand as his mind teemed with questions.

The air was chill and moist and rich with an unfamiliar fragrance. Tall trees stood rustling in the gentle breeze on either side of the road and the meadow rolled and dipped subtly in all directions. He felt cold and pulled his cloak closer. The weather too was certainly different.

He took a few steps forward, looking around and taking in the vastly different landscape still unable to believe the rod he held in his hand had actually transported him like Startear said it would. It was just incredible. Against the horizon, he saw the flare of torches throwing light upon a large gate and the dark form of a tall and imposing wall stretching into the distance. He decided to head toward it.

Suddenly his foot caught in something and he stumbled. He looked down. It was something metallic and rounded. He used the toe of his boot to clear away the thick film of grit and found himself looking down at a pair of gauntlets. Intrigued he knelt down for a closer inspection and to his astonishment \ saw the object was completely solid. It could not function as armour yet it was shaped like a gauntlet. He looked closely and spotted another half-buried object. He unearthed it. It looked like a full helmet, but again solid with no room for a person's head. Nevalle scratched his head.

"What in the hells?"

He found legs and a torso as well after a bit of searching in the area. And when he had gathered all the parts together, it still made no sense to him. It did not seem like a statue because the parts were separate and did not fit in together. They looked exactly like components of some type of full plate armour except it was impossible to wear. He had never seen anything like it before.

Completely baffled, he finally left the curious objects on the side of the road and resumed his trek toward the walled city ahead.

There was something magical about the land Nevalle noticed; he shouldered his travelling bag more comfortably and picked up some pace. It was difficult because his physical ailment still persisted even though he was now presumably thousands of leagues from where just a little while ago he had woken up with a terrible hangover and an even more terrible choice to make. But Startear had saved him. Startear that annoying, self-centred wizard, in one move he had earned Nevalle's eternal gratitude and the young Knight felt nothing but guilt for all the less than friendly thoughts he had harboured against him. He looked at the silver rod still in his hand and tucked it safely into his belt. It was his only means home.

The reality of his situation had only just begun to settle over him. He was beginning to grasp that he actually was far from home. Was he in Rashemen? He did not know, but the landscape and even the air was nothing familiar. He _felt_ alien, as if even the unfamiliar trees and birds regarded him with suspicion. He hoped the city that loomed ahead would hold some answers.

The road curved uphill and Nevalle faced some difficulty reaching the top because of his leg. When he reached the crest, he saw a wagon waylaid on the side of the road down below. His curiosity piqued and glad for the prospect of some human interaction, he picked his way down.

Strange sounds came to him as he stepped closer. An unintelligible chattering interspersed with exclamations and grunts. He grew cautious and subconsciously placed one hand on the hilt of his father's bastard sword. Slowly he proceeded forward.

The chattering grew louder and as he moved past the corner of the wagon blocking his view, he realised suddenly the strange noise he heard was actually a foreign tongue. He saw a family sitting in a clearing, talking among themselves in that unfamiliar dialect.

The gravity of his situation suddenly dawned on Nevalle. He was hundreds of leagues from home and he had not considered that they may not speak common at all. Suddenly, his mission seemed much more difficult than he had initially imagined. They looked up at him as he approached.

"Uh…do you speak Common?" He ventured.

They burst into rapid chattering and his heart sank. Then the man, clearly the head of the family stepped forward, regarding him with interest and spoke.

"Yes, I do. We're travellers here." His voice was thick with an accent Nevalle did not recognise but his relief at familiar words overwhelmed all else. "The wheel of our vehicle is destroyed and we're stuck here. The spirits are restless and angry all over Rashemen. This is a difficult time to be stranded."

"So I am in Rashemen then?" The thought was surreal. Just this afternoon he was sipping coffee and nursing a headache back in the lap of the Sword Mountains, and now he was at the very opposite end of Faerûn.

The man looked at him curiously, slightly bemused. "Rashemen yes, yonder is the City of Mulsantir." He pointed in the direction of the wall Nevalle had seen earlier and was heading toward.

"Mulsantir." He repeated.

"You are not Rashemi, I take it?" He asked, taken aback by Nevalle's bewilderment.

"Rashemi? No. I am from Neverwinter. Just this afternoon…." He trailed off, figuring it was not a good idea to advertise his rather valuable wand to utter strangers in a very strange land just yet. "Just arrived this morning and am a bit lost. I am afraid I don't know this region at all."

"Neverwinter? I haven't heard of this. Is it near here?"

"No, it's very far from here…in the Sword Coast, beyond the Sea of Fallen Stars, beyond Cormyr and Amn."

'Whoa! You're a long way from home. And here I thought I was a stranger. Well, you should be on your guard. The Telthors are awoken and very restless. There are strange happenings everywhere. I even heard rumours that Okku has returned. Be careful, lad."

None of it made any sense to Nevalle. "Telthors?"

"The same! Be careful not to irk them."

"Thank you, is there anything I can help you with?" Nevalle offered, finally recovering his manners, even though the man's warning was completely lost on him.

"Well, do you have a spare wheel on you?"

Nevalle did not.

"Then I guess you can't help me. If you see another carriage around here or even a wheel, let me know."

Nevalle agreed and moved on.

Dawn broke and filled the meadow with the cool light of Lathander's grace. The chirping of birds grew louder and more incessant as they awakened all around the forest, gossiping and chattering among themselves. The air was crisp and fresh and as he approached the gates, a rooster began to crow somewhere in the distance. The pale fresh light of dawn washed upon the stonework of the wall and the red flags that fluttered in the breeze. A pair of tired looking berserker guards, in garb Nevalle did not recognise stirred upon noticing the Knight.

"Stop stranger. This is Mulsantir. What is your business here?" Nevalle's fears that his proficiency in common would be useless in Rashemen were allayed. Relieved, he nodded pleasantly at the sentries and complied with their wish.

"Good Morning, soldiers! I am Sir Nevalle, Knight of Neverwinter. I have been sent by my Lord Nasher of Neverwinter on official business and I wish to speak with your City Officials."

"Neverwinter?" The guard looked at him puzzled somewhat and glanced at his fellow.

"Neverwinter is the seat of power in the Sword Coast. I have travelled many leagues to meet with your ruler on my Lord's behalf." Nevalle explained, wondering if he would need to pull out the documents bearing Nasher's seal and the signet ring he wore beneath his gloves.

"Let him through. The Witches will want to see him. This Sword Coast is where the new Spirit-Eater is said to have lived." There was a waver in the voice of the soldier and Nevalle thought he sensed something akin to fear.

"Do you know of the Spirit-Eater, stranger? Have you let loose this curse upon our lands? Speak!" The first soldier demanded, his voice betraying his unease.

"The Spirit-Eater? I don't know of this thing you speak of." First spirits and now spirit-eaters, it seemed Nevalle had much to discover about this strange land and he wondered if this Spirit-Eater was indeed from the Sword Coast, how it would affect his welcome in the city. It seemed strained enough already. "I only wish to speak to your leader."

"Enough my friend, Sheva will deal with him. Let him through. Tell that boy Kalim to take him to the Temple of the Three."

The sentry stepped aside reluctantly, eyeing Nevalle with suspicion. He pulled a rope swinging a bell to life and as its clang reverberated through the entire gate keep, Nevalle wondered what was in store for him. Presently, a young boy no older than thirteen or fourteen appeared and the second sentry ordered him to guide Nevalle to the Temple of the Three. Nevalle stepped through the gate and beheld the City of Mulsantir.

The cobbled street rose along a gradient, lined on either side by rows of stone houses. The roofs were thatched and the dew-drenched straw gleamed pale gold in the morning light. A couple of fattened cats lounged lazily in verandas before the homes. The hustle of civilisation had not yet picked up and it was quiet and still. The streets empty except for a few early risers. Eyes turned towards Nevalle as he followed the boy through the street, questioning whispers followed.

The boy skipped ahead cheerfully, stooping down to pick up a pebble and tossing it in the direction of a sleeping tabby. He missed but roused the slumbering cat and it scampered away. Nevalle stiffened a little in disapproval but thought better of chastising the boy.

"Oye! Kalim!" A scrawny girl of about the same age as Nevalle's young guide ran up to them. Her skin was dusky and her hair dark. She had intense amber eyes. "Where ya going with that bloke?"

"Talib's mission. I'm busy now, I'll talk to you later, then we'll go play in the woods!" He puffed up his chest, feeling self-important as he answered the little girl.

"But mummy said we can't go into the woods! The Spirit-Eater is gonna eat us!" Her voice sank low and eyes widened in alarm, she stole a glance around her as if afraid to be overheard.

"We aren't spirits, you idiot girl! We're people. The Spirit Eater only eats spirits."

"Mummy said she'll kill us if we go into the woods like she killed the Spirit Army!"

"Uff! You and your tales!" He replied dismissively. "Tell your brother to meet me by the gate later, you come too! We'll go hunt the spirit eater!" He added with much bravado.

"No! You wouldn't! Billy! Billy! Kalim is going to go into the woods alone! Billy!" She ran away screaming for presumably her brother in the direction of a large gaily festooned building.

Nevalle decided to quiz for some answers. "What is this Spirit-Eater? That girl seemed quite unnerved."

The boy stopped and whipped around to face Nevalle, his eyes widened in shock. "You don't know about the Spirit-Eater?"

"I am from very far away, I don't know much about this land. Will you tell me about it?"

The boy did not seem very impressed, "Don't you have Spirit-Eaters where you're from?"

"No, we do not have such things. What is a Spirit-Eater, are they dangerous?"

"Well," the boy began, stuffing his fists into his pockets and assuming a rather pensive expression. "When I was a kid, my grandma used to say that the spirit-eater ate children who wandered off into the woods." He paused, "but that's not true. I know the spirit-eater doesn't eat little children, only spirits."

"So what exactly is this Spirit-eater, is it beast of some sort, a ghoul?" Nevalle was just as lost as before.

"Why, it's a curse! A monster, that's what it is. But it wasn't around before. Only some months ago, it arrived with a Red Wizard woman and Bear-King Okku's spirit army at its heals! It was awesome. There was a great battle right outside the city gates. Fireworks everywhere! I saw the fighting from the roof of my house but then my mum pulled me away and put me to bed and it was all over in the morning."

Nevalle remained puzzled – a walking curse, a monster and a Bear-King. Okku. He had heard that name mentioned earlier. Nothing seemed to be making any sense to him. "Who is Okku?"

"Don't you know anything?" The boy said exasperated. "The Bear-King. He's very colourful. My friend Talia saw him one night outside her window. She said he's huge!"

"I see." The truth was Nevalle did not see at all. "Where is this Spirit-Eater now?"

"Gone." Kalim seemed slightly disappointed. "The Hathrans sent it somewhere. That's what Talib's boss said."

"Hathrans?"

"You really don't know anything! The Hathrans, the witches! I'm taking you to them now." He grabbed Nevalle's hand and pulled him up the street, at a pace rather painful for the Knight.

"What place is this?" Nevalle pointed to the imposing structure at the corner of a square, more to catch a breather than real interest. He wondered if he could finally find a proper healer in Mulsantir and be cured of the dreadful ability drain. Brightly coloured flags dangled down from the roof and a couple of silver masques adorned the top of the main entrance of the rather stately looking building.

"That's the Veil Theatre. They used to have plays there every weekend but ever since Lienna died, it's fallen quiet. But my aunt says Magda is preparing something for a grand reopening next week. You should come! It's gonna be great!" He seemed genuinely excited, "And over there, on the opposite side is the bazaar. The Harbour is right down this road through that gate there and you'll find The Sloop on the left. If you're gonna be staying long, you might wanna bunk there."

"I'll stop by later then."

"Come with me! This way!" Kalim grabbed the sleeve of his tunic and took off once again.

The road climbed sharply uphill and Nevalle watched in dismay as the boy darted up. The slope did not promise to be kind to his limp. He gritted his teeth and followed at the best pace he could muster but by the time he reached the top, there was a line of sweat along his brow and his breath came unevenly.

"What's wrong with you? You don't look so good." The boy finally asked, as Nevalle winced in pain.

"Is there someone I can go to for healing?" He asked. He must look pitiful indeed if even the boy could notice, despite having been trying so hard to mask it all along.

"Well there's Doomguides, I kin take you to Kelemvor's temple. It's on the way."

"Doomguides?" Nevalle did not like the sound of that, but he was out of options. "I suppose that could work. Please lead the way."

"Aye, they look after all kinds of sick people. If foreigners die when they come to Rashemen, we turn them over to the Doomguides. The witches only perform rites for Rashemi folk. But mostly folks who go to the Doomguides go there to die. Are you going to die?"

A chill settled over Nevalle. He studied the boy's face. It wore no sign of concern or worry, just matter of fact curiosity and it struck him that if he were to die here, there would be no one to mourn him, so many thousands of miles from the region where he grew up. It would be months, if not years before even a message could be brought to Nasher, and what would it read? A few hurried lines, no more. He shook the thought from his head.

"I just need a healing potion. That should fix me up. Then we proceed to see the Hathrans, alright?"

"Alright, coz Talib told me to take you to the Hathrans and he'll box my ears if I don't and it'll be no good if you died on the way."

They walked through a flung open gate. A couple of guards stood on either side, casually chatting to one another. They seemed far more relaxed compared to the Neverwinter city watch sentries on duty, standing stiff at attention; smartly attired with the Neverwinter crest emblazoned on their light blue cloaks. The fond recollection of familiar things put a smile on his face and he realised he had begun to miss home already. The Rashemi, he noted were not as fair as his own people but had a slightly darker, golden or olive hue to their skin. Their hair and eyes were dark and they looked hardy and tough. They stood slightly shorter than the average denizen of the Sword Coast and there was an exotic beauty about the women which did not escape Nevalle. Tall, fair, blond and blue-eyed as he was, he stood apart in the crowd and wherever he walked, eyes followed him diligently.

They weaved through the flock of people. Mulsantir was gradually awakening from its slumber and the streets were no longer as deserted as when he had first entered. Housewives stood in front of their verandas, waving and exchanging pleasantries with neighbours and passer-bys. However the casual conversation dipped as he approached, eyes watched him and whispered stirred as soon as he was deemed beyond earshot.

They reached a crossing and Kalim, his escort stopped short. "There, that's the Temple. You go on if you want to. I'll wait for you over there by the Ice Troll Lodge."

"Why not come with me?" Nevalle asked, glancing at the lodge pointed out to him.

"Naah, the Wall gives me the creeps."

Nevalle frowned and looked up at the Temple. It stood austere in the middle of its plot, a small dome shaped structure surrounded by a low wall. It looked barely large enough to hold a single chamber and Nevalle guessed there must be more to it than met the eye at that distance. "Well, I guess I'll meet up with you in a while then."

He proceeded self-consciously forward, carefully avoiding other pedestrians and nodding apologetically when he bumped into a few on the way. He hoped the 'doomguides' as the boy called them would finally be able to restore him to full strength. He crossed the street and his eyes fell upon the wall. It seemed intricately carved but he was unable to make out the pattern. He remembered the young boy's rather stricken expression from earlier and it piqued his interest. He paid closer attention as he neared it, wondering what could possibly be 'creepy' about a boundary wall.

He closed in and the pattern finally became discernable. "By the Gods!" He exclaimed under his breath.

The carvings were unmistakable and the answer to his question was before him. A sick feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, that distasteful reaction to something vile and unpleasant. A chill ran up his spine as he stood still regarding the grisly morbidness of it. The entire wall was composed not of bricks but of intricately detailed human corpses piled one on top of another as high as his waist. Countless tiny figures, their faces distorted in agony. Tiny limbs outstretched, clutching at one another; many broken and twisted at impossible angles. The amount and level of detail was remarkable and the sheer horror of it mind-numbing.

Nevalle knew what it was at once of course. Many a morning he had had the description of that very wall drummed into his head when he was still in middle school. The strict, gaunt face of his batty Religion teacher swam before him. Her horn-rimmed spectacles, the mole on her chin and that dreadfully high-pitched voice with which she yelled at her students, he could picture vividly.

He understood why the Rashemi child refused to accompany him to this horror. When he was young and the Wall was just a fairytale recited in class it affected him deeply, but back then he had only a description of words to go by and with time it faded from his mind. Now confronted by a model of such elaborate detail, the gruesomeness of it was involuntarily revisited in even greater depth. 'Creepy' did no justice at all.

Averting his eyes, his mind still benumbed by it, he eased through the small gate and walked up to the temple door. He rapped upon it a few times and then pushed it open.

Inside, an austere stone chamber greeted him; it was cool, dark and damp. The small windows allowed some light to enter and partially illuminate the hall but most of it remained steeped in gloom. It appeared to be a small antechamber, and a flight of stairs descended into the basement and to what Nevalle presumed, to be the actual temple proper. He proceeded down.

Below Nevalle found himself at the end of a long brightly lit corridor. It was much different from the Spartan bareness of the chamber above. The walls of stone were skilfully crafted and gilded with gold leaf. A thick, lustrous red carpet ran all the length of the hall and from what could be seen of it along the edges of the carpet, the floor was etched with a pattern of entwined lines inlaid with gold. The air was thick with the heady, pungently sweet scent of burning incense and also, the low, grim moans of the dying.

"Hello?" Nevalle called out uncertainly, the trod of his boots muffled by the carpet. His gaze still captivated by the walls gleaming with gold leaf. There was no response.

The passage fed into a large chamber. Several rooms opened into it from the opposite and adjacent walls, and though some of the doors were shut or ajar, he could still tell that they were the final resting place of many. In the centre of the hall, a raised platform dominated. It was an altar and etched into the wall in front of it was a large relief of Kelemvor's scales of Judgement elegantly finished in the same gold leaf.

Nevalle hesitated, taking in the quiet grandeur of the hall, there was something calming in the sanctity of this place that he dared not violate by speaking aloud. The soft muffled moans of the dying and the even softer murmur of voices praying were all the sound there was. The flickering of countless candles threw rich gold light upon the stones, cutting through the perfume and haze of the incense.

His eyes ventured toward the right hand corner of the chamber and he saw a couple of shelves lined with books and a desk, and then he noticed the obscure form of an acolyte, dressed in dark robes and hood, kneeling in prayer before the altar. Relieved to finally see another soul, Nevalle made to approach him but held back unsure whether he should disturb the man's prayer.

"This is Kelemvor's House and I am pleased to serve." A deep voice resounded. Startled, he quickly spun around.

"I…my name is Nevalle. I am a stranger to this town. What is this place?" He asked, somewhat flustered.

The man had an intense gaze and his thin gaunt face was lined with age. There was an aura of quiet authority around him, and yet there was something calm, almost serene about his demeanour. His face was pleasant, almost friendly. For the first time since arriving, Nevalle did not feel judged. Cowled in robes of smoky gray, Nevalle sensed there was much dormant power at his command despite which, the Priest put him at ease.

"I am Darovik, servant of Kelemvor and this is his House. We are guides…comforting the dying, shepherding them to their final judgement. Many choose to spend their last days here and we serve them all."

"Then people…come here to…to die?"

"We believe death is not to be feared. It is a comfort, an end of suffering…a new beginning."

"But what of the Wall outside…it is monstrous!"

"The Wall of the Faithless is a structure that encircles the City of Judgement – the City of the Dead." He took note of the distress it had caused Nevalle and his face softened in sympathy but he continued, "If you pay respect to no god, it is what awaits you after death. Your soul becomes part of the wall. It is…absorbed. The Wall has a hunger and it eats away at the consciousness, the memory and finally the soul."

Nevalle was no stranger to this. He had studied all this in school but it had slipped from his memory, blocked away by his unconscious like all other unpleasant things only to be jolted into the fore in this strange, forbidding place. The sight of the Wall, the retelling of its lore, it struck him anew. He was not aware of Darovik's careful study of him until the priest spoke again.

"Perhaps it does not seem fair but it is Kelemvor's judgment and we do not question it. The realms are not bound by law and our notions of fair at times suffer from a lack of perspective. The realms change however, of that I am certain. Perhaps such judgements will not last, but for now that is the law of the multiverse."

Nevalle sensed the priest was not telling him all and pressed, "What do you mean?"

Darovik sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder and Nevalle felt comforted at once. A warm sunny feeling tingled through him; it reminded him of the dream from which he had awoken earlier.

"Many have crusaded against the Wall through the ages, but none have been successful. And the gods' judgement of them has been swift and merciless. Indeed, only recently another came to hear the tale of Akachi the Betrayer, seeking the same answers that you do."

Nevalle met his gaze and the priest took his arm. "Come, you are afflicted. I shall tend to your injuries as I relate the story."

They crossed a long rectangular room and Nevalle glanced at the rows of beds lined against the wall. A few were occupied by those who awaited final closure, and their moans were heavy as they agonised in their last moments. Nevalle wondered how many of them would have to face the terrible punishment of the Wall as Darovik ushered him into a small room at the back.

"Akachi and his brother, Aveshi were left at the doors of Myrkul's temple and were raised in service. From the start, Akachi was different. His faith was so strong that neither disease nor affliction would touch him."

He offered Nevalle a chair and the Knight sat down. The priest began his ministration, reciting softly and sprinkling holy water upon him.

"The Black Whisper passed through Mulsantir and consumed many. Akachi would tend to the sick day after day, yet Myrkul's favour was such that the disease passed him untouched. He was able to inspire many to turn to the faith of the God of Bones. With time, his devotion to the god was so complete that Myrkul's favour grew to unprecedented proportions. He became High Priest and the hand of Myrkul's justice in this realm."

As the spell began to take effect, Nevalle felt a warmth spreading through him. It began in the centre of his torso, near his heart and radiated outwards. Wherever it touched a wound or sore, it seemed to grow warmer, tingling almost hot just beneath his skin and he would feel the pain and discomfort in the area fade. Muscles that were sore and knotted, felt rejuvenated; skin that was broken knitted back together and scars faded. He felt the strength return to his shoulders and knew he could wield his sword again as before. His grip regained its firmness and as the warmth spread further down his groin to his thigh, he felt the now familiar sensation intensify at the point of his leg injury. It grew warmer and warmer, and his skin felt almost singed yet the stronger the heat became, the looser his muscles felt. He felt the throbbing pain ebb and recede, fading into oblivion. The warmth descended further down his legs, mending other random bruises until finally reaching his toes and vanishing at once. He felt revitalised as relief from finally being rid of the terrible drain washed over him, yet his attention remained fast on Darovik's tale.

"How ever, with great favour come great tests. And so it came to pass, that Akachi's beloved was a wizardess who cared not for the gods. One day, her spell went awry and accidentally she caused her own demise. Akachi was devastated for he knew what awaited her in the afterlife. He interceded on her behalf and begged the god to spare her soul the torment of the Wall but Myrkul's justice was unrelenting. She was to be mortared in the Wall like all the other faithless."

"Akachi begged and pleaded his god but it was all to no avail. Finally, his pride outshone his loyalty and he swore an oath to tear down the Wall and free his beloved. He travelled far and wide and gathered allies. He turned his brother, also a High Priest of Myrkul to his side and gave him a new name. He raised a demilich, Rammaq from Myrkul's vault who had attempted to reach godhood many times before always to be thwarted by Myrkul, and Zoab, a celestial prince. He enlisted the aid of Serr'yu, a Dragon Queen and carved a gate from the Plane of Shadow to the Realm of the Dead. The first Crusade of the Betrayer marched through the Gate and lay siege to the City of Judgement, but Myrkul was ready for them.

A vast army met them at the City of Judgement, legions of the dead and even Baatezu from the Lower Planes. Akachi's forces were routed. His army vanquished, his generals fled far and wide, Akachi himself was captured and dragged before Myrkul in the Basilica of Lost Hope where the God of Bones pronounced judgment upon him. His punishment was unprecedented and his wrath terrible indeed."

Darovik finished leaning against a small armoire waiting for Nevalle to digest the bleak and horrific tale.

"What happened to him?"

"It is not known. Centuries later Myrkul himself was struck down by Mystra, the Goddess of the Weave in the Time of Troubles and his seat passed briefly to the insane god Cyric before it came to Kelemvor."

"Why doesn't Kelemvor unmake the Wall then?" Nevalle asked, still divided.

"Kelemvor cannot overturn the judgement of another god. Even gods must live by rules, besides the Wall is not without purpose. The Gods grant mortals their blessings and their favour. We beseech their aid in times of trouble and call upon them to ease our suffering. The existence of a god depends on those who worship and remember him. If one were to refuse to worship any god, the gods themselves would cease to exist. The entire order of the multiverse rests on faith, without it everything would become undone. That is why the Wall persists. That is why faithlessness is the greatest sin of all."

"But it just seems so…harsh."

Darovik sighed and moved in front of Nevalle. He placed his hands over his shoulders and gave him a small smile. "You have nothing to fear, young man. I sense Tyr's blessing is strong with you. Set your heart and mind at ease. Now, I trust you have what you sought?"

Nevalle looked up and smiled at the Priest. "Yes, thank you. I feel much restored." He got to his feet promptly, the discomfort in his leg was gone at last and he itched to be out of that gloomy atmosphere. "I must ask what I owe for your services, sir."

"That is not needed, we persevere to comfort all those who seek answers relating to death."

"I shall leave an offering with your acolyte for your cause then. And thank you for your tale."

II

Nevalle was glad to be out in the sun again. Kindly as the priest was, the conversation had doused his spirits and his heart felt heavy. Despite what he told himself to believe, as much as Darovik's explanation of why the Wall was necessary made sense, something inside him sympathised with Akachi's plight. His heart rend at the harshness of the Wall, the torment so many thousands were sentenced to suffer but what was more he found himself able to relate to Akachi. He understood what drove the High Priest to betrayal. Was he himself not torn along the same fault line ever since his meeting with Khelgar?

He had to admit the only reason he was not halfway a traitor to Neverwinter was because of Startear. Would he not have turned against Nasher's orders and Neverwinter's duty for the love of a woman? Nevalle simply did not know and he thanked the entire pantheon of gods for Startear's timely intervention.

The street outside the Temple was more crowded than before and the paleness of early morning light was replaced by the richer gold of daylight. Nevalle edged his way through people, crossed the road and looked around for the Rashemi boy who was supposed to take him to the Hathrans. Finally healed, he felt much more confident and capable than he had before.

In a few minutes, he spotted the boy chatting to two berserkers in the garden of the building across the road and he headed in the direction. He made his way along the road until he reached an opening in the garden fence and entered.

Suddenly, he was ambushed by something blue and translucent. Startled he stepped back in surprise. The creature was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It growled threateningly at Nevalle and refused to let him through.

"Good Lord! What is that?" He blurted, shocked at the sight of it.

It was the same size and shape as a common badger yet it was unlike anything Nevalle had ever laid eyes upon. Light passed right through the animal's skin and he could see past his belly at the grass beneath. It glowed with a pale ethereal blueness and had a slightly solid consistency like that of a large drop of water. It was not misty and amorphous like a ghost. It stood under the light of the sun, and seemed self-aware, conscious and very purposeful. Nevalle tried to move past it and it gnashed its teeth emitting a low growl. It reminded him very much of an angry puppy but he knew better than to irk a strange animal, however translucent and otherworldly it came across.

"What in the world is that?" He exclaimed as the boy raced to his side, his face flush. "I have never seen anything like it!"

"The telthor badger? Used to be the Lodge's mascot many years ago, then it died and stayed on. It doesn't like strangers much." The boy shooed it off until finally it scampered away reluctantly.

"A telthor? But what is a telthor!"

"Gee! Mister! Don't you have telthors where you come from? Telthors are spirits. They're all over the woods around here. Most are friendly but some get angry if ye disturb them."

Nevalle watched the translucent badger slink away in wonderment. "A spirit…" he said to himself pondering what sort of creature a spirit-eater would be if it fed on telthors. He followed the boy out of the enclosure and back onto the street. Thoughts of the creature he had just encountered still vivid in his mind.

Another steep incline presented itself but this time, Nevalle was able to traverse it without suffering and they passed through another pair of open gates at the top. They entered the Hathrans' enclosure, a mostly open space with the walkways cordoned off with a fence. The street narrowed and led towards a small bungalow at the top of the ridge surrounded by a wall. A couple of sheds adjoined it on the right hand side.

"That's the Temple of the Three. The Hathrans should be hanging around there." The boy pointed towards a clearing and Nevalle took the cue, heading off on his own.

Beyond the clearing, the terrace fell away to reveal a glorious panoramic view of Mulsantir dock below and beyond even that, a wide gently flowing river. Nevalle finally understood why the air was misty and moist and the carried the tang of salt. A strong breeze whipped his hair and cloak but was exhilarating none the less.

The Temple of the Three itself was nothing but a clearing marked off by the fence. In three corners stood three large statues of the nature goddesses – Meilikki, Mystra and Chauntea. Nevalle walked towards the clearing and saw three women praying at the altar in the centre. Their robes were dark and coarse and their faces, he noticed, obscured by deeply embellished and rather elaborate masques. Once he was within earshot, he cleared his throat to gain attention and when none was forthcoming, spoke aloud:

"Greetings! I seek the Hathrans of Mulsantir."

One of the women looked up at him and approached. Her gait slow and deliberate and Nevalle noted her furrowed brow and portly middle section. She looked strict and terse.

"Yes stranger, you have found us. Come forward, you seem to be new. It is a strange season for Mulsantir that brings foreigner upon foreigner knocking on our gate other than for trade."

Nevalle stepped gingerly inside and followed the Hathran to where she joined the other two. They had wrapped up their worship and weighed him with an exacting look.

"Sisters, another foreigner. He has the same smell upon him as the first." Said she and fell behind one of the other witches.

"I am Sheva Whitefeather, stranger. What has brought you here?" Her voice commanded authority and she stood tall and stately.

It was clear that the two others held her in high esteem and she was the one making the decisions among them. Her masque was more detailed and the furrows on her forehead deeper, though she betrayed no sign of weakness in any way. Her eyes were piercing and Nevalle could tell, missed nothing. She did not seem one to be trifled with, but her manner was open and non-threatening and almost immediately he felt that she was the most reasonable and rational of the three. She waited for his response patiently while the others looked on, their eyes betraying suspicion and distrust.

"My name is Sir Nevalle, milady and I have travelled from distant Neverwinter upon the Sword Coast on behalf of Lord Nasher, the ruler of our realm." He began, removing his gloves to present Nasher's signet ring to Sheva Whitefeather.

She looked at it for a moment and then turned her gaze back upon the Knight, "We know of Neverwinter. You are not the first denizen from there to bring trouble to Rashemen."

"Milady," he responded, "It is precisely this matter which has caused my Lord Nasher concern. We have reports that a certain citizen of ours is in this region, I was sent to ensure that our kingdom is not brought to ill-repute by those with less than noble intentions."

"I am surprised your Lord Nasher cares what the Rashemi think of him."

Nevalle had to admit that this was a thought that he himself had pondered quite a bit over but unfortunately, he had little in the way of explanation to offer the Hathran or even himself for that matter. "May I ask what troubles this region, and offer my aid on behalf of Lord Nasher?"

The third hathran spoke up before Sheva Whitefeather could reply. "Don't trust him, Sheva. We don't know his intentions and the Spirit-Eater remains an enigma. Sending him after her, might not go down well and we will have more problems than we have now."

"My sister Katya, has a valid point but I know you have travelled a great many leagues and do not wish to travel a great many more to return empty handed."

"What troubles this region is this: there is a new spirit-eater at large. The telthors are restless. The woods tremble and spirit armies have advanced upon our city. Rashemen is no longer a place of peace and Mulsantir is affected because trade along the Golden Way is affected. Our people are afraid. We have not had to deal with this curse for many centuries."

"I am sorry to hear that. Is the citizen of Neverwinter who preceded me responsible for this curse?"

"She bears the curse, yes. How she came about to do so, we do not know, neither does she apparently. Nor does the Bear-King. All we know for certain is that the Curse passes from one to another upon death. The Bear-King claims the Rashemi wizard who bore it before this one, trapped it in Okku's barrow before he died. Somehow, this Sword Coast woman ended up in the den and became afflicted. The woman claims she does not know how she ended up there, and the Bear King was slumbering when it happened."

"That Red Witch! She knows more than she lets on, I am sure of it! Thay! They released this abomination upon us!" The woman called Katya spat with venom.

Nevalle looked from Sheva Whitefeather to her and back to Sheva, but the latter ignored Katya and instead waited for him to speakk.

"What is the woman's name? Do you know who she is?" Nevalle asked, trying to keep up with all the information. "What does the Curse do?"

The woman who had received him spoke for the first time since, "The Curse is a hunger! A hunger for spirits, for souls, for the fey creatures that run free upon Rashemen. The telthors are manifestations of the land's soul and we revere them for they maintain the health of the land. It is a fine balance and the Curse of the Spirit-Eater strikes at the very core of the wheel that turns this region's delicate ecology."

"Then it must be stopped! I pledge myself. Show me where to find the fiend, and I shall put an end to it." He exclaimed, then a sobering thought struck him, "…but if I kill the host, the curse shall pass on to me?"

Sheva Whitefeather smiled ruefully, "Yes, that is correct. Killing the woman who bears the curse will do us no favours. It will consume her eventually anyway. It is only a matter of time. The more she feeds, the stronger the Craving grows until finally, no spirit will satiate the Hunger and it will turn in upon her own soul. At that moment, it will pass on to any person in the vicinity. And if she tries to suppress the Hunger, as this one supposedly intends to do, even then it will eventually turn in upon her own soul."

She studied the look of honest horror upon Nevalle's face and pre-empted his next question even before he put it into words. "And no, there is no known cure for it. That is exactly what she has gone off in search of, the Spirit-Eater and the small posse that have joined her: The winged girl, the Red Wizard, that vile hagspawn dream walker."

Nevalle shook his head in dismay. He kept stumbling upon so many horrible revelations. First the ghastly encounter with the Wall and Darovik's disturbing tale and now this terrible curse. To think a person, one no different than he suffered a fate so bleak; the strength of will and courage it must take to do battle with a dark hunger inside one and all this in a strange land, amid strange people. His heart went out to that unknown person. He wanted to help. Perhaps he thought, he could catch up with them, and offer what help he could. He knew what it was like to be torn from the inside and felt ashamed: his own conflict seemed so trivial compared to what the Spirit-Eater must bear. "Who is she? Do you know her name?"

"We do not know, young man. I did not ask. She is a young, pretty thing, tall, possibly plane-touched – celestial blood perhaps and easily underestimated. People draw to her; even the Great Bear King follows her now. The irony of it marvels us. Okku the Bear King, brought down an army of spirits to defeat her. There was a great battle right outside our city gates and the spirits fled before her yet she showed…restraint, spared the Great Spirit and now he walks at her side. A Spirit Eater and a forest Guardian – who would have thought? That is why we have tolerated her in our city. She seems different from the rest, perhaps the gods have transplanted her from your distant realm to Rashemen for a reason. We wait and watch."

The description given of the Spirit-Eater struck a familiar chord. It birthed a strange thought that crept through his mind, _could it be?_ He dismissed it, willing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. Not now, it was time for work, he would think of it later. "Where can I find her now?"

"She has gone to Ashenwood, to meet with the Woodman, the Spirit of Ashenwood." Katya provided. "It is a rather brilliant plot of mine, I think. All Spirit-Eaters eventually head to Ashenwood. The Forest is dense with spirits and it draws them like moths to a flame." She added darkly, a flicker of amusement crossing her eyes.

"What do you mean?" Her words carried a faint hint of malice which put him on guard.

"Simply that many a spirit eater has gone to face the Woodman before her and he yet lives while they do not."

"What! You sent her to her death? But she has done you no harm! How could you!" He exclaimed enraged. He looked at Sheva and his eyes plainly expressed his disappointment. He somehow expected more from her yet she remained neutral even as Katya revelled. "I must go after her! She must be warned! How do I get to Ashenwood?"

"We will not stop you, Knight of Neverwinter but let me remind you that you have presented yourself in your official capacity and we will take your actions as representative of Neverwinter. Furthermore, we will not appreciate foreign intervention in our internal affairs. It does not please us to send an unsuspecting soul to their end but our first duty is to Rashemen and her people. If the few must be sacrificed to save the many, so will it be done." Sheva's tone was passive but firm and one look into her eyes confirmed that she would not be willing to compromise.

"So that is how it will be?" He seethed in anger and his brain churned, "Well then, if the Spirit Eater, an _enemy_ of telthors and of Rashemen has gone to seek out the Guardian Spirit of Ashenwood, I must follow to ensure that no _harm_ befalls the Woodman. Neverwinter would not want the Spirit-Eater to consume such an important piece of your _ecology_."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the clearing but not before having glimpsed the look on the Hathrans' faces. Katya looked infuriated, the third witch's brow was furrowed and as for Sheva, her penetrating gaze followed him intrigued but her face remained unreadable.


	6. Chapter 6

_Some of the content in this chapter may be unsuitable for younger readers._

I

Rashemi cuisine did not go down very well with Nevalle. He was used to the mellow flavours popular in the Sword Coast and the rabbit curry turned out to be far too hot. Further, as someone who never drank the wrong wine with his meat, he did not relish the idea of combining mead with rabbit but his only other choice was an acrid concoction of fermented rice that tasted strongly of starch mixed in vinegar. He picked at the bits of food and drank more water to douse the burning in his mouth, reminding himself to stick to mashed potatoes from there on. It was enough to force him to turn his attention back to the problems at hand.

He had to get to Ashenwood. He felt a strong obligation to go after the Spirit-Eater, an irrational yet overwhelming urge that was simply beyond refutation but the fact that Nasher's explicit, repeated instructions to maintain cordial ties with the Rashemi above all else presented a conflict.

Sheva had made it clear that she did not warrant his interference. The letter and spirit of his orders demanded the same. Nasher had ordered him to ally with the Powers that Be in this strange land. His duty was to be cordial, promote Neverwinter's diplomatic interests, investigate what was going on and offer his assistance if needed and to verify whether, as the reports suggested, a prominent citizen of Neverwinter was involved in any of this. Furthermore, and the recollection of Nasher's stern warning was vivid in his mind, if a citizen of Neverwinter was in fact creating trouble in Rashemen, he were to distance himself from it and convey to the authorities that his City was in no way involved. Nowhere did choosing to side with the Spirit Eater enter into the equation and therein lay his current dilemma.

He could not explain why he was so very anxious to reach the Spirit-Eater and join her, except that the predicament that the poor creature faced spurred him to action. The part of him that was good grew outraged at the unfairness of it all. He wanted to help, to aid, to ease her suffering, yet the part of him that adhered to order and duty firmly tethered him, and the resulting conflict tore him to pieces.

He sipped from the mug of sweet honey liquor and pushed the half-eaten plate of food aside, unable to finish. Between his contradicting emotions and the spice, he simply could not bring himself to eat.

_Why?_ Why could he not bring himself to ignore this urge to help the Spirit-Eater, why was he so affected! _You know why._ "Ugh!" He groaned pushing that silly idea away once more. Every once in a while it would re-emerge, pulling at his heartstrings, stirring an impossible suggestion that he knew would only bring him more torment if he allowed himself to indulge it.

He emptied the mug down his throat and finally came to a decision. He would go to Ashenwood but he would only observe and not meddle. That was simple enough. Nasher wanted him to investigate, so he would follow the Spirit-Eater to investigate, no more. He would not breach the terms of his welcome. The Hathrans said that they would not stop him if he did not interfere and simply going to Ashenwood to meet the Spirit Eater was within the letter of Nasher's edicts. It was not defiance. It was well within the scope of his duty.

But with that conclusion came a pang of guilt: the realisation that he had crossed a line he had never ventured beyond. Before that tiny voice could scold him, he removed himself from his seat, threw down a handful of coins to cover his bill and a generous tip with which he hoped to bribe his own guilt-ridden conscience and strode out of The Sloop.

It was early evening, and a strong breeze wrapped around him, tousling his hair and tugging at his cloak. The Rashemi boy was no longer chaperoning him around town and though he had been explained the basic layout of the city, Nevalle still felt questioning eyes upon him everywhere and without an intermediary he felt even less welcome than before. Earlier the Inn-Keeper Vladek had informed him that the road link to Ashenwood was blocked because of landslides and bad weather and his only option would be to get someone to ferry him across the river. This, Nevalle foresaw would be easier said than done.

The inn-keeper's somewhat unorthodox wife suggested he try his luck along the jetty and it was with this purpose in mind that he now headed in the direction of a group of sailors on the far side of the docks. Judging from their drunken antics, negotiations did not promise to be pleasant. More over Nevalle had the unfortunate tendency to incite ridicule and derision in the inebriated and he readied himself for some rather impolite banter as he approached a group of tipsy, dishevelled men.

"Oh ho!" One drunken lout propped up by two more drunken louts exclaimed as the Knight approached. "Look what 'ave we 'ere boys!" A round of laughter followed, and Nevalle frowned, setting his jaw firm and furrowing his brows in what he deemed to be his less accommodating countenance. "What'cha doin' the wrong side of town, pretty boy! Come lookin' for 'venture? We gots some 'venture for ya! Don't we lads!" Another loud guffaw ensued.

"I need a man to take me to Ashenwood. Are any of you up to the task?" He asked keeping his voice level.

"Ya need a man aw right! And we're all up t' th' task!" More hollering pierced the air.

The one in the middle took a long swig from his bottle and tossed it in Nevalle's direction. It landed just at his feet and Nevalle stepped aside to avoid it. It shattered and what alcohol remained splashed across his boots. "Aww, and 'ere I thought he'd go runnin' off like dem damsels!"

Nevalle met his glare and returned it, "The Inn Keeper said I could find a seaman but it seems there's nothing but you drunken stooges here. I wasted my time." He turned around and made to leave.

"Hah! That boat o'er there! She's mine aw right! 21 feet, and all o' it mine! You hear that!" Clearly he had touched a sore, the man in the centre grew livid and it took all the other two could muster to control him. "Ya can't come in 'ere n call me stooge! I'm cap'n of my boat! Make that trip to Ashenwood and down all summer long! Ya hear!"

Nevalle turned around again. "I need you to make that trip early this year. I need to leave by dawn at the latest."

"Ye can't go." He slumped down next to one of the wooden posts along the pier. "Dem witches…no one's allowed to go there e'er since that trouble at that post o' theirs."

"What trouble?" Nevalle grew impatient, he seemed to be running into obstacles everywhere.

"Dunno…berserkers gone missin' or sumfin, dunno. Used t' fish there now jus gettin' drunk." He yawned, his head lolling in all directions. Nevalle wagered he would pass out any minute.

This was turning out to be more cumbersome every minute. Not only did he have to find a way to Ashenwood, he now had to find a way despite a curfew. The notion that it would not settle that neatly with his orders to maintain cordial and favourable ties with the Rashemi Hathrans on Nasher's behalf crossed his mind briefly but was dismissed quickly. To consider that aspect would only complicate matters further. He did not want anything to divert him from the decision he had finally reached.

"I must go to Ashenwood, where can I get permission?"

The seaman was nodding away and seemed to have dozed off already. Nevalle looked up and noticed one of his companions looking as if he had something to say. "Well?" He pressured him.

"Ye kin get a permit from one o' the witches, then I can take ye in my boat. But it'll cost ye 300 gold sovereigns for the trip."

"Sheva Whitefeather did not seem thrilled by the idea of my visit, I doubt she will cooperate. Is there any other way?"

"Then ye'll 'ave t' ask some 'un else now won't ye! There's Azalia…she runs this part o' town…she can give ye a permit…but…dunno if yeh 'ave the stomach fer her."

Nevalle frowned again. "And where is this Azalia? I shall go meet her at once."

The drunkard shuffled, bringing his bottle to his lips and gulping messily. "She'll be comin'. She likes t' watch dem ruddy actors Vladek's got hired…yeh kin talk to 'er then." He started to chuckle and tottered with the motion, choked and slipped into a fit of coughing. "Ye won't 'ave the stomach fer her! I kin tell ya that…" he sighed emphatically, and then stumbled away, slinking into the shadows that had lengthened across the docks, muttering under his breath, "…no 'un has the stomach fer Azalia…"

II

It was a couple of hours later that a somewhat tired Nevalle made his way down to the docks and The Sloop. He had been strolling around the city, in order to better familiarise himself with it and also because he had nothing else to do while he waited for Azalia to show up. He had been on his feet ever since arriving in Mulsantir before the crack of dawn earlier that day, and it was now well into the evening. The last time he had slept was the fitful slumber he had stolen back in Old Owl Well and though he was too anxious to actually admit he was tired and get some rest, he was beginning to feel it.

He felt a yawn building up as he reached the dock gates but quickly suppressed it upon noticing the small group of people gathered outside the entrance to The Sloop. He continued down the road and caught a glimpse of a woman heading inside the Inn. She was flanked by two berserkers and a nervous looking assistant and carried herself with an air of dismissive arrogance. As she entered the building, Nevalle saw that even Zorah, the Inn-Keeper's half-orc bouncer-wife stepped aside reverently, her expression shadowed by nervousness. More than a little intrigued, Nevalle continued toward the Inn wondering if the woman he had just seen was the same one for whom he had been in wait. He decided the Inn-keeper would be able to shed some light on the issue.

When he entered the building, he saw the new patron settling down at a round table right in front of the stage. She wore the ornate mask set with jewels and feathers that marked her for a Hathran. Two berserker guards stood behind her chair scowling at everyone else and the timid attendant took a chair at the far end of the table. Vladek, the inn-keeper himself fluttered about her, jotting down what Nevalle figured was a rather long order with trembling hands and snapping at the other waiters who scooted around. Zorah had left her customary position by the door and stationed herself protectively behind her fretful husband; though she appeared just as apprehensive.

Seeing how the innkeeper was occupied, Nevalle figured he would have to wait a while to have his attention and decided to head toward the bar to bide his time, but before he could slink away eyes settled upon him.

"Fresh blood Vladek?" There was something icy and wicked about the voice and it cut through the air like a knife.

"Uh…Sir Nevalle, mistress. Fr..from Neverwinter…guest here." Vladek responded flustered.

Nevalle smiled politely and nodded. The Inn-keeper seemed to be trembling and uncharacteristically overcome with sheer anxiety; Nevalle debated whether he should walk up and properly introduce himself or continue forth. He searched Vladek's face hoping the man would give him a clue as to which option would be easier on his agitated nerves.

"A Knight you say, how very thrilling!" There was a certain inflexion to her voice that made Nevalle uncomfortable. "Come here, dear lad. Let me look upon you closely. A real live Knight and so very handsome, what a treat!" She pronounced the word mockingly, her eyes bright and a cynical smile touching her lips.

Nevalle glanced at the Innkeeper, registering the pitiful, almost apologetic expression on his face and walked up to the table. As he drew close he felt her eyes all over him, sweeping him up and down and ogling unabashedly. There was something very lascivious about her manner which he found quite disconcerting in a woman of her status.

"Sir Nevalle of Neverwinter, my lady, pleased to make your acquaintance." He held out his hand.

She did not respond immediately but continued to run her eyes all over him, including his outstretched hand and only when she had satisfied herself did she slowly extend her own hand and slipped her fingers into his palm, expecting him to kiss her knuckles. Her manner was derisive and mocking and though Nevalle had been raised to kiss the hands of women when they were offered, he could not bring himself to press his lips against hers. He bowed over her hand and released it. She seemed disappointed.

"Azalia of Mulsantir, Hathran Witch; this district falls under my supervision." Her words were uttered sharply and Nevalle wondered if it was some kind of veiled threat.

The mask did a poor job of concealing her face which was thin with perfect, angular features. She was not unpleasant to behold, with large almond shapes eyes, thick lashes and a piercing gaze. Her full lips and bow shaped mouth was possibly her best feature but set in a perpetual sardonic smirk. She was an attractive woman, with a trim, proportionate figure and though well into her forties or fifties, she seemed to have lost none of her vitality. Yet despite her physical appeal, a base wickedness emanated from her and Nevalle felt strongly repelled.

"Ah milady Azalia, I am doubly pleased to have run into you like this." He thought he might as well get right to his business and cut short this meeting with the witch. "I wished to speak to you on a matter of considerable importance to my visit here. I was informed you would be here this evening and had come down to wait for you. This is a fine coincidence."

Azalia smiled and stroked the chair beside her. "Come, Sir Nevalle. Please me with your company. Very seldom has such a dashing Knight as yourself graced our city." Her smile relaxed into that cynical smirk of hers and her eyes glittered in a sly, calculating manner that caused the young man more than a little discomfort. "Business can wait, let there be entertainment for now."

This was precisely what he did not want but the look she gave him suggested arguing otherwise might compromise his position. Reluctantly he settled into the chair she offered. It was not lost to him that she had tucked him between herself, the stage, a strategically placed pillar and her armed guards so that he was unable to leave but at her pleasure. He was beginning to have a slight inkling what she wanted with him and it was no comforting thought. He asked the waiter hovering nearby to bring him the strongest drink in the house and resigned himself to a difficult evening.

The band geared up and began to play a loud and boisterous tune just as the waiter returned with a tumbler of liquor that Nevalle did not recognise. It was a bright, sparkling green, a shade of green in fact that Nevalle knew only too well. A strange slotted spoon containing a cube of sugar was placed over the glass and the waiter trickled ice-cold water into the tumbler. Nevalle watched as the bright green liquid swirled around and turned cloudy. It caught her notice and she stooped close to whisper in his ear.

"The Green Fairy? That is a rather strong choice!"

The nearness of her distracted Nevalle; her perfume overwhelmed him. It was strong and heady and he could not breathe for it. She slipped her hand through his elbow and smiled patronisingly. Her nails were long and dyed a deep earthy red. She pulled her chair close and leaned in closer still, casually stroking his arm and whispering something in his ear but at that moment he was struck by the full intensity of her interest in him and was too appalled to pay attention to her words, the sound of his own heart thundering in his ears drowning out her voice. Quickly he reached for the odd shaped tumbler and poured its cloudy swirling contents down his throat.

It was a mistake.

The liquid burned like acid and went down his throat like a fireball. Coughing and choking, he thought it would char a hole right through his gullet. Tears welled in his eyes and when the horrible stinging finally subsided, an even worse sound trickled to him: the sound of her tinkling laughter followed by the light caress of her hand on his back.

The slapstick theatrics of The Sloop troupe continued without pause, much to the delight of its cruder patrons and that vile woman Nevalle could not yet escape. Well aware of the discomfort her advances caused the young man, it proved to be no deterrence to Azalia. In fact his uneasiness only encouraged her and that mocking smile never left her lips.

"What wicked pleasure this is!" She whispered into Nevalle's ear, noting the tint of red upon his skin. She had parked her right hand upon his upper leg for most of the performance; this she now brushed higher up along his inner thigh and squeezed tightly. "I think this is glorious fun compared to the uptight snobbery put up at the Veil."

Nevalle placed his hand over hers and made to remove it but she held fast, tightening her grip. "You had some business with me, sir Nevalle? You mentioned you needed my aid in an important matter. We can discuss it after the play." Her tone conveyed her meaning very clearly and all he could do was grit his teeth, place his hands back on the table in front him and allow her to place hers exactly where she pleased. He nodded in reply, a constriction in his throat keeping him from speaking; hoping the motley band of actors would finish soon so he could get that damned permit and beg his leave.

The show dragged on and Azalia's special attention did not diminish. She brushed her fingers up and down the length of his thigh, leaning much too close against him, occasionally stroking his nape with her nails. Her perfume and the warmth of her body pressing into him made him exceedingly distressed but worst of all her languid, protracted ministrations had started to slowly affect him adding to his mortification. His attempts to defend himself were met sternly or ignored and Nevalle found himself stumped in face of her determination. He had dealt with hordes of undead, marauders, Luskan invaders, mercenaries, bandits and brigands but never with a lady of such bent of mind. His upbringing and training simply failed to account for predators of her particular species. For the sake of the permit he tried his best to bear it, ordering himself another one of those toxic drinks called The Green Fairy, praying whatever damage it did was within Darovik's ability to repair.

The boorish comedians finally wrapped up. By then the effects of the alcohol had settled well over Nevalle and he felt light headed and somewhat sedated. Azalia's chin rested on his shoulder and the fingers of one hand traced a pattern over his forearm, the other she wrapped around his back. Thankfully the tavern had emptied except for the red-faced Vladek furiously wiping down the counter at the far end of the hall, his ungainly wife leaning against a wall beside him, her brow creased with misgiving; and the attendant who cowered at a small table nearby embarrassed by his mistress's behaviour. Only the two berserkers stood stoic-faced and unperturbed on either side of the exit.

The cast took their final bow and disappeared through a side access while Azalia drew back from him to clap. "Marvellous, simply marvellous!" She approved loudly and then turned back to Nevalle. "What did you think, my beautiful boy?" Her fingers brushed a lock of dark blond hair off his forehead. She noted the momentary flicker of displeasure that quickly flashed across his face and gave him one of her poison smiles, running her fingers deeper through his hair.

"I…I am glad you enjoyed yourself. That is all that matters." He stumbled a little on his words the effects of her and the alcohol combining to slur his speech. Her fingers in his hair made him flinch and that spurred her on; she turned her face and brushed her lips against his neck.

"Uh…my lady… if I may be so bold, there was that matter we had to discuss." He sputtered out quickly.

"Ah yes, I remember." To his relief she withdrew from. Air rushed back into his lungs and his racing heart eased a little.. She leaned back in her chair, training her eyes upon him. "So what can I do for you?"

Nevalle inhaled and shifted into a more comfortable position, glad that she was finally willing to listen to him and that his torment was near an end. He could almost feel the warm embrace of the hot bath waiting for him in his quarters. "My Liege back home has demanded that I investigate a serious threat to Mulsantir, which may be of Sword Coast origin – this fiend known as the Spirit-Eater."

"How very noble of you!" She smiled that vile poisonous smile of hers and Nevalle politely returned it.

"In order to continue my pursuit, I must follow the Spirit-Eater to Ashenwood and for that I must request you for a permit." He finished, looking into her eyes and trying to decipher what the new expression upon her face meant.

"Ah, I see." She made herself more comfortable in her chair and wrapped the shawl closer around her shoulders. "And this must be very important to you, yes?" She prompted.

"Yes, extremely so, my lady. I cannot return home without having fulfilled my duty. For that I must go to Ashenwood and I cannot do so without your leave." Nevalle explained gravely, hoping to sway her.

She turned to her attendant and snapped her long fingers so that he leapt to her side, unsettling the dishes upon his table.

"Yes mistress?" Nevalle could see cold sweat beading across his forehead and he seemed to be trembling just a little.

"Tell Vladek that I shall be his guest tonight."

The attendant visibly coloured. In the backdrop, a grunt escaped the half-orc's mouth and a glass slipped from the Innkeeper's hands, shattering upon the wooden floor. The crash rang loud through the quiet hall and Nevalle heard him curse under his breath. It only added to his growing confusion.

Azalia leaned toward him and once more Nevalle felt the brush of her fingers as her hand snaked along his thigh. When she spoke, her voice was low almost a whisper and there was a glint in her eye that Nevalle did not like, a jungle cat about to pounce upon unsuspecting prey.

"You please me immensely Sir Nevalle and I want to sample more of your delightful…company."

That sly smile slowly spread across her face as the meaning of her insinuation sunk in. An expression of smug triumph bloomed upon her features just as the full shock and revulsion of what had just been asked of him likewise dawned upon his.

"Preposterous!" He recoiled from her in sheer horror uttering under his breath, too startled to speak aloud.

"Oh Sir Nevalle, am I that displeasing to you?" Mockingly she contorted her face as if wounded, obviously enjoying herself tremendously. "I seem to recall you were rather…responsive before." Nevalle flushed red in the face. "Come now…humour me in my hour of need, and I will humour you in yours."

III

Several hours later, Nevalle slumped over a glass of that terrible rice fermentation native to Rashemen. His eyes felt heavy and his head felt like he had been bludgeoned with an adamantine warhammer. He held himself perfectly still afraid even the slightest movement would make his stomach turn; he was so strongly nauseous. Though aware that he had imbibed far too much alcohol, the awful, vitriolic brew seemed to be the only thing that drowned the revulsion, disgust and extreme self-loathing that clung to him. But amount of alcohol could disguise the filth that he felt coated every inch of skin. No amount of hot water could rinse it. No amount of cologne masked the hint of her perfume that he still smelt upon himself and which made him retch uncontrollably. He clutched the tumbler and emptied it down his throat, all he could do to suppress the urge to heave out his gut. He set the glass back down forcefully and pushed it forward, indicating that he wanted a refill.

Vladek shook his head, "Get some rest, Sir Nevalle. Ye've drunk enough for a night. I won't in good conscience let you poison yourself. Just go on to your room." His voice was gentle and his expression pained. He felt responsible for the young man's devastation.

"I want more, fill it up." It was a flat, low voice that replied.

Vladek began to shake his head more fervently, "really sir, I think you ought to…"

"FUCKING FILL IT UP!" Nevalle slammed the counter, roaring savagely and Vladek froze, completely taken by surprise; never imagining the reserved, polite foreigner could explode like that. He quickly refilled the tumbler as asked and backed away.

Had he been aware of himself, his rage might have taken him by surprise too but he was not. The entire evening seemed to be a long, horrible nightmare and he prayed that someone would rouse him so that he could wake in the comfort of his own bedroom in Neverwinter and discard the memory of that witch from his mind as a bad nightmare.

Nevalle was no stranger to his carnal instincts. He was only the most eligible bachelor in Sword Coast's capital city and quite aware of it. Hardly beyond the threshold of boyhood and the girls had surrounded him. Blessed with ample wealth, a prestigious family name and generous looks, there was scarcely a fertile patch in all Sword Coast that he had not had the opportunity and pleasure of sowing with his wild oats.

Yet this was different. He felt violated. It was a devastating feeling of unwarranted scrutiny; an uninvited encroachment upon his person that penetrated deep into his innermost core, then pervaded from within, laying bare his self. He felt vivisected, wrenched open and utterly breached. A sense of complete powerlessness followed, it frightened him because he had never experienced a situation where his physical strength, skills, position or resourcefulness had not empowered him yet all that which gave him self worth had been pushed aside and he could call upon none of it. It dissolved into terrible, maddening frustration and he grew aware of a dark savage fury building inside him. It was something wholly new unlike anything he had ever known. So raw and sinister – for the first time in his life he glimpsed that dormant darkness capable of inflicting deliberate harm upon a person, that deeply buried part concealed within capable of cold-blooded murder and then it smouldered away. In its wake there was a void and he felt like he would never be clean and immaculate again. There was a taint upon him, that no soap or scrub could remove; he felt cheapened, unwholesome and rotted.

Initially, he refused flatly, not in the least tempted to even consider the intolerable proposal. He pushed himself to his feet, indignant and shaking with fury, he had stalked off to find another way to Ashenwood. There were other Hathrans, he would knock on each one's door, and surely someone less morally twisted would consider his request. He wished no harm. He was there to help. It would be a simple matter to convince one of the others to give him the permit.

In the end he had returned empty handed.

All that stood between him and the permit was his pride. He sat down silently at the bar counter and began to work on chipping away at it: dissolving it slowly in drink and introspection. There was no other way really, he told himself. It was only a matter of an hour or two, he been with a woman countless times before he tried to rationalise. Never had he imagined holding this dialogue with himself, convincing himself to whore for a favour. Even more sobering was the foul knowledge that eventually he had given in.

He remembered her smug triumphant expression, that revolting curve of her mouth when she smiled. The rustle of the silk robes she had exchanged for her evening clothes. Her Hathran mask was gone. She had been expecting him.

He could still hear the soft scratching of her quill afterwards as she signed the permit, dusted it, folded it neatly in two and then held it out of his reach until he submitted to her will and paid the ransom for it of a kiss.

He hung his head in shame until it was almost morning. Slowly he slid off the bar stool and clutching the counter for support, made his way towards the door that led to the tavern's accommodation. He stepped cautiously, one foot after the other, bracing himself as the whole room swayed dangerously. He tasted bile and swallowed to keep himself from throwing up. Fortunately, Vladek reached his side and Nevalle was grateful for his help. He started to fade out of consciousness and was only dimly aware of being led toward his quarters.

Dreamlessly he slept, but not for long and when his eyes opened some hours later, he was greeted by the terrible pounding in his head. Sunlight streamed in through the curtains no one had bothered to draw and a chill breeze wafted inside. He dragged himself out of bed and made his way to the window.

The slate grey waters of the river reflected the sun, flowing calmly away and out of sight behind the bluff. Judging from the position of the sun, he estimated it be an hour or two before noon. Leaning far out of the window, he looked out upon the promenade. Much of it was blocked from view, but his eyes took in a couple of boats rocking upon the waves in the jetty, and a number of people milling about their business. Ordinary, everyday sounds drifted his way, a few familiar words interspersed by the somewhat harsh guttural sounds of the Rashemi language. He ducked back inside.

The breath of fresh air had diminished the worst of his head-ache. He noted that his clothes were the same from the day before, only his boots had been removed. He tried to recall who had seen him to his room but his last memory was a vague recollection of sulking in the bar. He figured it must have been the proprietor and made a mental note to thank him. He extracted fresh clothes and ran his hand against his cheek, deciding he needed a shave as well as another bath.

Shortly after noon, he set sail for Ashenwood.

IV

It was after dark, six days later when the boat finally approached the shore. Against the dark curtain of nightfall, Nevalle could just make out the black outline of Ashenwood's slumbering forest. He could hear the wind rustling in the distant trees, and somewhere far off a wolf let off a long, mournful howl at the half moon re-emerging above the tree line from behind a thick cover of clouds. It cast a pale, milky light upon the surface of the water, upon the trees and finally upon the land.

Nevalle felt his breath catch as the moonlight illuminated the thick white blanket of permafrost. The snow glistened like polished white ceramic rolling as far as the eye could see, serene and eerily tranquil. He could feel a slight reverberation of magic from the wood, and knew the touch of the Weave was strong upon this part of the land.

The Rashemi he had hired steered the boat toward an alcove and as the boat neared the tiny pier jutting out from the frost-laden bank, Nevalle spied a tall wooden picket in the trees ahead. They touched land and Nevalle jumped out and onto the wooden platform, eager to stretch his legs. He wondered if the spirit-eater was near and with that thought, he found his heart skipping faster as that other twin notion stirred as well. Before he could stop himself, his imagination skipped ahead of him – could it really be _her?_ Would _she_ be much changed by the curse, would she even remember him– a vision of her face, of her iridescent acid green eyes flooding with relief as they settled upon him, of her shapely body, so soft and warm filling his embrace, of her voice breathing his name swam into his mind. He seized his thoughts and the vision faded. He shook the fanciful notion from his mind, chiding himself for letting it flow in the first place. Besides, he no longer deserved her. He was sullied and unchaste, utterly despicable and no longer worthy of her pristine loveliness.

"There, I gots ye 'ere like promised." The short, stale boatman broke through his thoughts. Nevalle watched him unload the luggage and leaned forward to take his things in hand. "Through th' woods there, lies the Lake O' Tears garrison. I'll wait for ye, set up me camp right 'ere. Catch sum trout or sumfin all the while. Ye go do yer business."

Nevalle nodded and shouldered his belongings. He adjusted the fur-lined hood over his head and pulled his cloak forward. It was deathly cold and he was beginning to feel more of it as his body adjusted. He was glad he had had the foresight to pack winter clothing. He trudged through the snow toward the dirt part that curved through the trees and headed in the direction of the picket he had seen earlier, wondering what sort of reception he would receive.

The forest closed in around him. He walked deeper into the woods, leaving the white shoreline behind, looking around at the dense forest surrounding him. That envelope of magic he had sensed earlier was thick and strong and Nevalle thought he could almost see it – a faint flickering of sparks but it could have just been the spots dancing in his eyes as his vision adjusted or perhaps general weariness that was making him hallucinate.

Up ahead the tall wooden picket demarcating the garrison of the Lake of Tears loomed and though initially he felt pleased at having reached it at last, quickly he realised something was wrong. The gate lay flung open and there were no sentries in sight.

"That is odd." He commented to himself under his breath.

He placed a hand over his weapon and approached with added caution. The entire garrison was plunged in darkness and there was not a hint of light – no lanterns, no torches, not even the flicker of a candle. It was completely silent; the only sound the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the chirping of insects. He proceeded further and entered the enclosure.

The ghastly scene of a slaughter greeted him.

Several bodies lay sprawled about the courtyard. The pristine whiteness of the snow smeared red with trails of blood. Weapons blackened with blood littered all around. Faces contorted in the last throes of death, unseeing eyes staring blankly into the distance, life leeched from them. Flesh seemed torn in places, stomachs especially and entrails spilled out upon the snow. In horror, Nevalle realised that animals had been feeding on the corpses.

There was a slight hint of the smell of decay and as he neared the first of the several corpses, he noted the blood was caked and crusted. This massacre was at least a few days old, the bodies preserved only because of the extreme cold.

He went around inspecting the several corpses. He counted six altogether. Among them a middle-aged masked woman, likely a Hathran, and a handful of berserkers. There were about three large buildings in the area. He noticed the door to the one on the west was slightly ajar. He decided to investigate.

He pushed through the door and stepped inside the log-cabin. The interior was plunged into darkness, only a thin trickle of moonlight entered through a small window. He lit a match and it flared to life, casting a small pool of light before him. He removed the torch hanging from his belt and lit it before turning his attention back to the cabin. He found himself standing in a corner of a large L – shaped room. There was a fireplace on the wall adjacent to his right hand side and a book shelf right in front of him, as well as a curious stand with a length of fabric stretched upon it, whose purpose was not immediately obvious to him. The fireplace itself lay cold and he noticed the charred embers in the grate. He wondered when a fire had last warmed the cabin and whether it was the draught from the half-open door that had killed it.

On the opposite wall, he saw a large wooden desk and a chair backed up against the only window. Books and papers littered the table and there were sheets of pages scattered upon the floor. More shelves lined with books, a rather Spartan bed and a boiler were the only other signs of inhabitation. Nevalle moved to the desk and rifled through the random articles strewn across it. He rummaged through various notebooks until his eyes fell upon a well-worn leather-bound journal; he flipped it open.

Many of the pages were in a language he did not understand, but which he presumed to be the Rashemi script. Some of the entries were in Common and towards the end of the book he found pages that were of special interest.

"_The woods seem even more restless than before. Something dark seems to stir but I have no idea what it is. Each night I make offerings to the telthors but the forest does not respond._

_A paragraph in the Rashemi script followed which he could not read._

_Sent in more berserkers, the garrison is getting low on men. They keep disappearing into the forest."_

Dated two days later:

"_The garrison is down now to only a handful of men. My last patrol has not returned either. At this rate, this out post will have to be abandoned."_

The next entry was from nearly three weeks ago:

"_I have a vague suspicion about that new girl Nadaj. I saw her sneaking away into the forest, when I specifically warned every one this morning to stay out. There were a few more sentences in Rashemi that were unreadable to him."_

A second entry from the same day followed:

"_The forest has started to attack the garrison now. This is unprecedented. 2 blighted treeants and a shambling mound. The riverside gate is damaged and needs repair."_

Nevalle leafed through a few pages that were blank until he came across more lines hurriedly scribbled in the same hand.

"_Another attack this morning. I think I finally know what is provoking the forest's rage! A spirit Eater! I know the Cursed One has been dormant for centuries but __it is again within our midst. Came looking for the Woodman. From my window I saw Nadaj conversing with her behind my back. I still don't trust that witchl. There is a strange look in her eye. _

_There is nothing I can do about the Cursed One, and she has gone into the wood. I hope the forest can deal with her, for I simply have no means to do so. Yet there is something different about her. She claims she can suppress the Hunger but that is impossible. The Spirits help us all."_

The last entry was incomplete:

"_The forest seems sedated for the moment. There is a still in the air that I cannot place. Odeysa reports the blight is gone. That may be so because the attacks upon the garrison have seized._

_The Spirit Eater has returned to the garrison. Nadaj has been showing too much interest in her. I think she might be planning something. I can see them talking now from my window – a rather comely young woman, with such unusual eyes, like the essence of spirits, what a shame…"_

The sentence trailed off without finishing. The entry was from five days ago.

Nevalle closed the book. The description of her eyes had struck a chord with him and he felt that familiar pang but he pushed it aside, trying to focus. The people in this garrison had been alive five days ago. He himself had been en route from Mulsantir, headed in this very direction. He wondered if the Spirit Eater was still in the area, whether she was aware of what had happened to the garrison. A disturbing thought rose in his mind – what if the Spirit Eater was responsible for the slaughter? No! _She_ could never do such a thing. He shook his head, reminding himself that the possibility that the Spirit Eater was _her_ was non-existent. She was far away, in another place, another _plane_ altogether. He would search for her, after this business was done. He would find this Spirit Eater, exchange a few words and then return home. Nasher would have his report; he did not need to know why it was sketchy. Then he would go to Waterdeep and devote himself to finding _her_. There was also the matter of the bodies strewn in the courtyard. He could not just leave them lying like that, they deserved a proper burial. Perhaps he could convince the boatman with some extra gold to dig a grave for them but that would have to wait until morning.

Realising that he could not feel his fingers or toes or even his nose, he wandered over to the fire place and looked into the possibility of getting a fire going. There was a pail filled with firewood. He tossed a few pieces into the grate and threw in the torch as well. A few minutes later the grate had roared to life and he found feeling returning to his extremities. He searched around in his bag pack for something to sustain him and recovered the last of his beef jerky. He skewered one of the fire place pokers through it and heated the meat over the flame. The warmth of the hearth and the dancing flames comforted him, and he found himself slipping into a memory from happier times.

"_I see you've got __us a fire going, how chivalrous of you…Sir Nevalle." He looked up a bit startled and smiled. She walked as softly as cat, and he could never hear her approach not even when the ground was carpeted by autumn leaves. The studded leathers she preferred over real armour flattered her generous curves. Just a little flushed; a lovely pink sheen glowed upon her pale cheeks. She was more comely to him in battle-gear than all the Neverwinter ladies in their expensive fineries. Her hair was a bit dishevelled and he knew she would sit down, undo it and tie it up again and he relished the idea of seeing it in its unbound glory. He loved her hair. Dark but not black, it glinted with a pale gold sheen in the light of the sun. He noticed the pair of habits slung from the trophy hook in her belt and teased her back, "I see you've got us some dinner, how very housewifely of you!"_

_She arched an eyebrow, catching on to his rather bold insinuation and gave him one of her rare smiles. It never failed to warm his heart. She walked the rest of the distance that separated them and slid the Duskwood bow to the ground where she had earlier deposited her twin rapiers to his care. Then settled down close beside him, their limbs touching and inhaled deeply. Without thinking he placed a hand over her knee and stroked her thigh. "Not much game out there today, I just found rabbits. Bishop would probably have done better than I. I am not as skilled as he with the bow, or as my father."_

_At the mention of the other ranger, Nevalle removed__ his hand and shifted, that idyllic domestic tranquillity between them that he was so enjoying replaced by the gloom of the unsaid. Bishop. What about that villain captivated her he would never know, but it was plain to him that there was a longing in her eyes when they settled upon him. He looked away, "You are skilled in the use of two blades at once. That is more useful in battle anyway."_

"_You flatter me, I have not the strength to wreak as much damage as you, or Casavir, or Khelgar." He sensed movement and his eyes glanced back to see that she had unwound her hair and teased her fingers through the dark golden brown curtain. How he longed to do the same. He wondered if he took her here, in the wilderness, silencing her protests with his skilled ministrations, seducing her, making her cry out with desire for him, would she still be enthralled by the ranger afterward. He was too much of a gentleman to do more than muse about it however._

"_You wield lighter weapons with much more finesse than any of us, your thrusts are precise and you parry expertly plus you are skilled enough in the use of the bow. Daeghun has trained you well, even if you have not adopted his style."_

"_Do you think the Keep will hold against them? I had to see it for myself but Bevil's patrols were right, the undead that march through the Mere as we speak are a multitude! You saw them and that was just the vanguard."_

_He sighed and despite himself__ patted her knee. "You have done more for the Keep than Lord Nasher or I could ever hope for. Veedle cannot stop gloating about the fortified walls or those guard towers. I know how much of your own savings you have pooled into the Keep's renovation. If anything can hold the undead it is Crossroad. Nasher says that he will take his men and meet them near Highcliff but both of us are in agreement that Crossroad is where Neverwinter will make her real stand. That is the extent of Nasher's faith in you and your Garrison."_

"_The faith that you and Nasher put in me is both an honour and a burden, sometimes the responsibility, knowing that the fate of all Sword Coast is tied to my actions, I just feel overwhelmed… I am nobody, an obscure Harborman, I don't even know my own last name and I will be honest, I haven't always followed the straight and the narrow…"_

_Nevalle smiled as__ she trailed of. He took her hand in his, interlocking his fingers with hers. "I know that. You still don't follow the straight and the narrow. Uncus, a fence? The Fated Winds? I was appalled by both those decisions initially but it has helped fill our coffers. The men are equipped with the best and that is what will win us the day." His smile broadened, "I suppose I don't have to discipline you for now."_

_He__ appreciated the rather fetching blush upon her cheeks. "Oh my Goodness, what has gotten into you today!"_

She was out there somewhere and he would find her and this time he would not hesitate to express all that he had left unsaid and now regretted. He finished eating and wiped his hands with a handkerchief. The warmth of the fire had made him somewhat groggy, but he was not ready to sleep yet so he wandered to the window and peered outside. It had become fogged and he used his sleeve to wipe a portion clean.

There was another cabin on the far side of the camp and a smaller one next to a second gate which he supposed led deeper into the woods. It also lay open like the first and he wondered what waited for him beyond the threshold. His thoughts turned to the Woodman, did the Guardian still live? He thought of the Spirit-Eater, she had been here in this camp not a week ago. Did she have a hand in this massacre? He did not know. The personal journal he had leafed through had mentioned a woman called Nadaj but he had no way of confirming whether the body he had seen earlier had been hers. He crinkled his brow recalling that the slain woman seemed to have been middle-aged; where as the journal entries suggested that Nadaj was younger. He had not been able to determine who the cabin belonged to, or who had penned the journal though he was sure it was the same person. His eyes drew back to the gate that led to Ashenwood, and he decided to do some further exploration.

Nevalle left the Lake of Tears Garrison behind and entered the woods. There was a quiet in the air and all was serene and tranquil, except for the rustling of the wind in the trees and the twittering of insects. Sometimes, the silence was pierced by a distant howl or a muffled chirp from an owl. There was no sign of human habitation and he was beginning to sense why – there was a very perceptible sacredness among the trees and he felt like an intruder upon sanctified ground.

What was more, every now and then, just beyond the edge of vision he would spot a blue shimmer of movement. He felt eyes watching him and he believed the telthors that he had been told densely populated Ashenwood, followed him. He knew too they would not turn hostile as long as he respected the woods.

The dirt track he had been following disappeared under the thick blanket of snow and he had to navigate over the sea of white. As he ventured deeper into the magical forest, the telthors grew bolder and freely entered his field of vision. Thus far having only encountered the badger back in Mulsantir, he was struck with wonder at the sight of a large leopard lounging beneath a tree.

It was a beautiful, regal sight and Nevalle stood still drinking in the sight in awe. It idly flicked about its tail and Nevalle could make out the pattern of its blue, ethereal fur and the snow covered roots of the tree against which it lay. Its eyes were intelligent and they fastened upon Nevalle weighing him with mild interest but the leopard made no effort to move. Nevalle wondered if any of its carnivorous instincts still persisted. Then suddenly, as if having grown tired of the Knight's curiosity, the big telthor cat lifted itself to its feet and stalked leisurely off into the forest. Nevalle let out the breath he had involuntarily been holding and watched it disappear into the underbrush.

He continued his trek and came upon similar marvels of Rashemen. Elegant stags, wolves and even a lone bear or two. They simply materialised when he drew near and appraised him and the Knight watched them shimmer upon the snow, their movement wonderfully light and fluid and their eyes bright with a wisdom and intelligence he had not encountered in animals before. None of them turned hostile and all would slink away once they had satisfied themselves that he was no danger to their forest.

Then suddenly before him loomed the most remarkable sight of all. Nevalle was left dazed in wonder as his eyes came to rest upon it and he stopped in his tracks for a good several minutes before inching slowly forward, totally incredulous. The woods had opened up into a large clearing, in the very centre of which there lay a most extraordinary oasis. Not a fleck of snow blemished the rich, verdant green carpet and beautiful flowers in full bloom raised their heads amidst the moss. Neither the cold, nor the time of day bothered them and within that small paradise there was perpetual daylight and perpetual spring. The dark envelope of night itself did not intrude upon that plentiful lawn and it seemed to be bathed in a golden diffuse sunlight that had no immediately identifiable source. The air shimmered and Nevalle sensed strong magical energy emanating from it. In the very centre a single ash tree stood hugely tall and majestic. It too was lush with the kiss of spring and heavily laden with fresh bright green leaves. A warm glow wrapped around it.

Completely overcome with the grandeur of the sight, Nevalle did not take note of the corpse half-buried in the snow just a few feet short of the green and stumbled upon it, shaken out of his surprise.

"Great Tymora!" He recovered his balance and knelt down to examine the find. He cleared away some of the drift and realised the body was that of a woman. His heart skipped a beat and only steadied once he had revealed the face.

The cold and ice had preserved this corpse too like the others and he was able to tell that it was a young Rashemi female. He saw a fragment of what looked like one of those masks the Hathrans always wore and it struck him that the dead woman seemed to be about the right age to have been the witch Nadaj. He closed her blank lifeless eyes and stood up.

There was something about the towering Ash tree glade that stopped him from trampling right onto the green, instead he walked around it still trying to fathom the majesty of it when he spotted a telthor a few dozen yards away that he had never encountered before. Greatly intrigued he walked towards it and sure enough, it was a man.

"Are you a telthor as well?" He asked deeply fascinated. The berserker wore a simple type of hide armour and shimmered ethereal blue under the light of the moon, with the same consistency as that of a human-sized drop of water he had come to expect of the spirit creatures.

"I served Ashenwood in life, and in death it was my great honour to return as a guardian of the land." He spoke softly and his eyes shone with the same serenity and wisdom he had seen in the others.

"I did not know people could also turn into telthors." He stated mulling over the notion and then went further, "What is that tree? It is nothing like anything I have seen before. It seems to lie beyond the touch of winter!" "And there is a woman's body over there and the Lake of Tears Garrison, all of them are dead, killed most likely. It's a slaughter. Do you know anything about what happened to it?" he asked hopefully.

"That is where the Spirit of Ashenwood resides – the Woodman. It had been growing weaker and weaker because the forest suffered, but Chauntea watches over Ashenwood now and the Woodman is restored."

"Why was the forest suffering? Was it because of the Spirit-Eater? Do you know where she is now?" Nevalle was teeming with questions and could hardly wait for answers, so glad was he to have finally found some means to solve all the riddles he had been confronted with.

"No, I do not know of the Spirit-Eater… but there was a woman here, with strange powers to mold spirits. She invoked the blessing of Chauntea and cured the blight that afflicted the forest, she freed the Island Sanctuary from the Frost Giants and restored the guardian spirit, she doused the flames in the Burning Grove. Once the fury of the forest was strong and made the Woodman weak, now Ashenwood is calm again, all because of her." The telthor berserker's voice was touched with a hint of reverence for the forest's mysterious benefactor.

"Where is this woman now?" Nevalle asked, almost certain that the woman spoken of had been the Spirit-Eater in question.

"She spoke with the Guardian of the Forest at the Ashenwood Tree. But before that, there was a battle and she struck down the witch which the Forest's Fury had possessed." The spirit pointed at the glowing ash tree. "She left after that and the other telthors tell that she sailed away in a boat towards the City."

It was beginning to make a little more sense to Nevalle. "Did that witch have anything to do with the slaughter in the Lake of Tears Garrison?"

The telthor berserker paused and thought over it for a moment, "I guess so. In life I served there under Dalenka. Then the troubles started and the forest grew angry and hostile. I was sent to this area to see what was wrong and found the Frost Giants occupying the Island Sanctuary. In trying to drive them off, I was slain…but I remember only a few days before I left the garrison, a new witch had arrived fresh from the City. Ever since then the forest's rage not only became stronger but …more focused I think. If the Garrison has been slaughtered as you say, then it is possible that she caused it, but I do not know for sure. It may be the Guardian of Ashenwood knows more."

"Oh? Is it possible for me to speak to the Woodman?" Nevalle enquired, excited somewhat at the prospect of interviewing an ancient spirit guardian.

"Maybe he will speak to you, it is up to him. Go the Ashenwood Tree and ask him yourself." The berserker shrugged and then began to walk away; he seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

"Many thanks for your help, telthor." Nevalle called after him and then made his way towards the gigantic glowing tree.

As he stepped into the clearing, he felt the air grow thick and warm. The difference in temperature was remarkable and within a few moments he was forced to push off his hood and remove the warm cloak that had been sheltering him from the cold all this while. The fragrance of flowers and grass was rich and he breathed deeply of it. It reminded him of warm, lazy summer days from back home and a wave of longing for the Sword Coast came over him. Recovering quickly he proceeded towards the great ash tree and placed a hand on its trunk. It seemed to reverberate with power.

"Greetings, Guardian of Ashenwood. I have travelled many, many leagues from a distant shore to beseech your audience." He spoke aloud to no one in particular, carefully choosing his words, knowing the ancient spirit would be sensitive to the tone of voice he used.

For a few moments the stillness remained unshaken and just when Nevalle was beginning to feel foolish begging for a tree's attention, a disembodied voice cut through the silence booming loudly in his ears.

"Speak mortal. Why have you disturbed the Woodman?" Bewildered, Nevalle looked around for the source of the voice but he was as alone as he had been before.

"I have come in search of the Spirit-Eater that plagues Rashemen, Guardian. Can you tell me something of it?"

There was an eerie quiet and Nevalle wondered if the Woodman had changed his mind about humouring him until the voice rumbled to life once more.

"It is an ancient Curse. A Hunger for the spirits, for souls, for the life force…There can be only one Spirit-Eater at a time. When the Hunger cannot be sated by the spirit of others it turns upon the soul of he who bears it and devours it." This much was already known to Nevalle.

"Is there a cure for this Hunger, O Great One?"

"None. I have seen many, many masks of the Spirit Eater mortal, each one the same - mindlessly possessed by the Hunger, unable to resist…but there is a new Spirit Eater now, one who walked this land but a few days ago and even an ancient such as I, who has watched this land from the time when Chauntea and the others ran through these woods, has been humbled."

"How is it different?"

The voice paused and Nevalle absorbed the information, "Through will alone the Spirit-Eater bestowed life just as it devoured the souls, and this Forest stands in testimony to the greatness of that one's Will. This Forest bears witness that the Spirit-Eater is no slave to the Hunger."

"Gave life to the whole forest? That is incredible…" He found the notion overwhelming and did not know how to continue so he turned to something he could understand better.

"And The Lake of Tears Garrison? What happened there?"

"As the forest suffered, and I was too weakened to restore it, its rage, fury and vengeance manifested in one from the mortal camp and it turned the mortal against its brethren. It had to be defeated before I could gather my strength and the Spirit-Eater is to thank for this."

Nevalle nodded guessing accurately that he had learned all that he would in Ashenwood, and that he would have to return to Mulsantir to continue his pursuit and meet up with the Spirit-Eater. He was glad that she lived and the Hathran's plot to bring her end at the Woodman's hands had concluded with such an ironic twist.

"Thank you, Great Spirit. I will bear your wisdom to my people."

He trekked back to the Lake of Tears Garrison and the comfort of the warm cabin he had left behind looking forward to sleeping soundly until sunrise. The prospect of another six days of rocking upon the water did not thrill him but at the end of it at least, he could finally catch up with the Spirit-Eater and then set out for home and Waterdeep.

He reached the cabin and decided to make use of the bed Dalenka no longer needed. Since he never really trusted any one else's bed sheets, he spread his own bed roll on top of it and snuggled inside, wistfully sifting through his collection of favourite memories until a deep, dreamless slumber overtook him.


End file.
